The First Frost's Song

Beneath the velvet cloak of night

A quiet spell, a tender light.

The season shifts, a breath, a pause,

And frost arrives with silent laws.

It's silver fingers trace the land,

A fleeting touch, a painter's hand.

On every blade, on every bough,

A glint of magic lingers now.

The garden sleeps in icy dreams,

Its petals caught in moonlit gleams.

The pond, the mirror, smooth and cold,

Reflects the stars in frames of gold.

Each window pane a work of art,

Etched by the frost's unspoken heart.

Its patterns swirl, a frozen lace,

A fleeting moment time won't replace.

The dawn awakens, soft and shy,

With amber streaks that kiss the sky.

The frost retreats, its time so brief,

A sparkling gift, a golden leaf.

Yet in its wake, it leaves behind

A quiet truth for heart and mind:

That beauty lives in fleeting things,

In frosted fields and winter's wings.

So let us pause and let us see

The grace within its brevity.

For in this dance of chill and light,

The first frost sings of winter's might.

Its song is fleeting, pure, and true,

A whispered gift from earth to you.