The Sound of First Frost

It begins as a whisper—

not from the trees,

but from the air itself.

The last leaves tremble

like paper secrets,

their edges crisp, gold fading to ghost.

A bird hesitates mid-song,

as if unsure whether to stay or leave.

The wind carries its indecision

through the hollow bones of branches.

Underfoot, the earth speaks differently now.

Each step cracks a thin memory—

frozen dew,

half dream, half goodbye.

The smell changes first:

apples turning sweet in forgotten baskets,

smoke curling lazy from chimneys,

wet bark cooling like a fever that’s finally broken.

Then comes the quiet.

The kind that isn’t silence,

but listening.

You can hear it if you stand still enough—

the soft ticking of frost

as it claims the edges of the world.

Grass stiffens,

windows sigh,

and somewhere,

a creek gives up its song

to a thin glaze of glass.

The light turns metallic,

and for a heartbeat,

everything feels fragile enough to shatter.

But there’s beauty in the surrender.

Autumn doesn’t fight the frost—

it leans into it,

folding its warmth into the soil,

trusting spring to find it again someday.

I breathe out,

and the air takes shape before me—

white, fleeting,

proof that I am still here.

And in that moment,

I swear I can hear the world

turning over in its sleep,

making room for the cold,

for the stillness,

for what comes next.

— E.G.