The First frost

The First Frost

A hush falls soft upon the land,

As frost extends its silver hand.

Beneath the moon’s watchful light,

Winter whispers through the night.

The earth awakens, cold and still,

A fragile lace on vale and hill.

Each blade of grass, a crystal wand,

Spun by nature’s fleeting bond.

The trees, adorned in icy lace,

Stand frozen in a quiet grace.

Their breathless branches catch the gleam,

Of dawn’s first tender golden beam.

The world transformed, a dream made real,

A canvas white, surreal to feel.

The crunch of footsteps, crisp and light,

Echoes in the morning’s bite.

A robin’s call cuts through the chill,

Its song as pure as winter’s will.

A fleeting moment, here then gone,

As frost gives way to warming dawn.

But in this pause, this frosted time,

There’s beauty stark, a fleeting rhyme.

The season’s magic comes alive,

A frozen breath where dreams survive.

So let us marvel, while it stays,

This fleeting gift of winter’s gaze.

For in the frost, we glimpse the art,

Of nature’s cold, yet tender heart. And as the frost begins to fade,

The sun ascends, its warmth displayed.

Droplets form and trickle down,

Turning white to earthen brown.

Yet in those fleeting moments past,

The first frost left a spell to last.

It whispered secrets, soft and low,

Of winter’s magic, cloaked in snow.

The lakes will freeze, the winds will howl,

The nights will stretch in shadowed cowl.

But in that first frost, we were shown,

The quiet beauty winter owns.

Its touch so delicate, yet profound,

Transforms the world without a sound.

A fleeting glimpse, a silent ode,

To the icy paths where time has strode.

And though the frost will melt away,

Its memory lingers through the day.

For winter’s heart, so stark, so true,

Begins with frost’s enchanting hue.

So let us cherish this fleeting trace,

The season’s first cold, tender embrace.

For in its grasp, we come to see,

The fragile strength of eternity.And as the day begins to glow,

The frost retreats, its secrets stow.

Each glimmer fades, but not its lore,

For frost has touched the soul’s deep core.

The fields remember its quiet kiss,

A fleeting brush of frozen bliss.

The trees stand tall, their crowns still bright,

With winter’s promise held in light.

In every shimmering blade and leaf,

There lies a moment, pure and brief.

A herald of the months to come,

Of icy winds and muted sun.

Yet, even as it slips away,

The first frost calls for us to stay—

To linger in its fragile reign,

To savor joy amidst the plain.

For winter is a paradox,

Its beauty locked in frozen clocks.

It slows the world, but stirs the heart,

With wonder found in nature’s art.

So let us walk the frosted ground,

Hear every silent, fleeting sound.

For though the frost will fade by noon,

Its magic hums a timeless tune.

In frost’s brief breath, a truth is clear:

That every season holds us near.

And even in the coldest hours,

Life reveals its quiet powers.And as we tread the glistening earth,

We feel the frost’s unspoken worth.

It’s not just cold or fleeting white,

But a fleeting spark of nature’s might.

The air so crisp, it fills the chest,

A sharp reminder of winter’s quest.

To strip away the autumn’s gold,

And weave the world in beauty bold.

Each frozen web on windowpane,

A masterpiece in winter’s name.

Each flake of frost, a starry shard,

A fleeting wonder, soft yet hard.

The season’s first touch leaves its trace,

On every heart, in every space.

It whispers softly, “All things fade,

But in their end, new gifts are made.”

For frost will yield to snow’s embrace,

To roaring fires and slower pace.

Its fleeting moment, small but true,

Is but a prelude to winter’s view.

So when the frost retreats its hand,

And sunlight thaws the frozen land,

Remember still its crystal art—

The fleeting magic it imparts.

For in that frost, so pure, so brief,

We find a balm to every grief.

A quiet beauty, cold yet warm,

A fleeting peace amidst the storm.The frost, though gone, leaves dreams behind,

Etched softly in the waking mind.

Its shimmering breath, its icy touch,

A quiet wonder that means so much.

We carry forward what it inspires:

The stillness, the glow of first frost’s fires.

It calls us to pause, to truly see,

The fragile grace in life’s brevity.

For winter’s chill is more than cold,

It’s a story ancient, timeless, bold.

A season of rest, of calm, of peace,

Where nature’s tempo gently decreases.

The frost begins the tale it spins,

Where endings fold and new life begins.

It whispers of cycles, of letting go,

Of frozen paths that lead to growth.

And though the snow will soon descend,

And winter’s harshness may extend,

The memory of frost’s gentle song,

Will keep our spirits steady and strong.

So when the seasons shift again,

When springtime thaws the icy glen,

We’ll look back fondly, in awe and delight,

At winter’s first frost and its fleeting light.

For in its beauty, fragile and rare,

It showed us life’s intricate care.

A reminder to cherish what’s here today,

Before, like frost, it fades away.