The Sound of First Frost

Listen—

the world exhales in silver.

A whisper of ice threads through fallen leaves,

turning their crisp laughter into brittle sighs.

—

The air tastes of metal and memory—

a cold sweetness clinging to breath,

like apples forgotten on a branch,

half-dreaming beneath a paling moon.

—

The fields hold their silence

the way a hand cups a fading flame.

Somewhere, water tightens its skin—

a quiet shiver in the birdbath,

a hush across the pond’s glass edge.

—

Frost gathers in secret,

spelling the language of stillness

on fence rails,

on the slumbering backs of pumpkins,

on the lips of every blade of grass.

—

The last cricket tunes its fragile bow,

its song a thread too thin to hold the dawn.

Far off, a barn door moans—

wood contracting with the cold,

its voice the ache of season’s turning.

—

You can almost hear the light change—

a pale blue hum,

a soft retreat from gold.

The world leans into its own reflection,

waiting for snow’s first breath,

for the sound

of everything pausing

to listen.