The First Frost

In the hush before the dawn,

A breath of winter lingers, drawn—

A silent sigh that paints the air,

With frost that sparkles everywhere.

The earth, once warm, now holds its breath,

As night surrenders to the depth

Of morning’s quiet, crisp, and bright,

The world is adorned in silver light.

Each blade of grass, a frozen thread,

A lattice woven, soft, and spread,

Where tiny stars, in secret bloom,

Illuminate the chilled earth’s tomb.

The trees, like sentinels in white,

Stand still beneath the pale moonlight,

Their branches etched in diamond lace,

A fleeting, perfect, fragile grace.

The air, so sharp, it tastes of the time,

Of ancient whispers, pure, sublime,

And all around, the earth asleep,

Wrapped in the magic winter keeps.

The world’s reborn in frozen gleam,

A crystal moment, like a dream—

So still, it seems the clock has paused,

And nature sighs, without a cause.

A fleeting touch, a tender kiss,

A glimpse of winter’s waking bliss—

The frost, it shimmers, then is gone,

A fleeting magic, just a song.

For all too soon, the sun will rise

And chase the frost from clear blue skies,

Yet in the quiet morning’s glow,

The first frost whispers soft and slow.

So linger here, and breathe it in,

This moment where the cold begins,

For in the frost, we find the peace

That winter’s quiet heart's release.