the sound of the frost

The Sound of the Frost

It begins in silence—

a hush that leans against the pane,

where moonlight listens

to the breath of the sleeping earth.

Then, a whisper—

soft as a sigh drawn through glass—

threads itself between the trees,

spinning crystal from the air.

Grass blades stiffen,

each one singing a brittle note,

a quiet chime beneath the weight

of winter’s careful hand.

Branches murmur in silver tongues,

their words too cold to melt,

and fences creak like frozen harps

strummed by the dawn’s pale light.

You might not hear it

until you stop breathing—

that thin, sharp hush

where warmth once was—

the sound of frost becoming song.