The First Frost

As dawn unveils its silver lace,

A gentle touch, a fleeting grace,

Where winter’s breath, so soft and near,

Meets earth with frost, a quiet tier.

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The trees, once clothed in autumn's hue,

Stand wrapped in white, as if they knew,

Each crystal bloom, a fleeting star,

A shimmer caught from near and far.

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The air is crisp, a sharp delight,

A silence woven through the light,

For winter comes, both soft and bold,

And steals the warmth from morning's gold.

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Yet in this chill, a magic grows,

A frozen song the landscape knows,

From grass to sky, a whispered cheer,

As winter's touch begins to near.

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Each frost-kissed leaf, each glistening pine,

Becomes a dream in cold, divine,

And though it fades, so swift, so pure,

It leaves behind a trace, secure.

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So let this season's quiet birth

Remind us of the fleeting worth—

The first frost's kiss, so pure, so light,

A whispered promise of the night.