The Edge of Frost

The air holds its breath

a thin seam between seasons,

stitched with the silver thread of dawn.

Leaves, once crisp and brazen,

soften in the hush,

curling like the corners of forgotten letters.

The trees stand half-undressed,

their last colors whispering down the spine of wind.

Somewhere, a crow clears its throat

the sound carries the weight of something ending.

Even the light feels unsure now,

its warmth thinning through the ribs of cloud.

The grass wears a lace of frost,

a delicate confession.

Every step crackles like a secret too loud.

Wood smoke drifts from chimneys,

sweet as memory,

and beneath it all, the slow thaw of earth

yielding to cold hands.

I taste the shift

the air sharp with tin and pine,

the scent of wood rot and rain-soaked bark.

My fingers ache with the beauty of it.

This is the hour of almost

not yet winter,

but no longer fall.

The moment the world pauses

between inhale and exhale,

holding the note

before it turns to snow.