What Survives the First Frost

The cold came quiet.

A thin, unfinished breath

pressing itself against the world

as if choosing what to kill

and what to spare.

I saw it gather on the last yellow petals,

soft as mercy,

sharp as regret.

Ice clung to them like a final truth,

a glittering edge

between holding on

and being held down.

The flowers didn’t tremble.

They stood there.

Small, stubborn,

alive against the certainty of winter,

and something in me ached

at how familiar that felt.

The frost bit hard.

You could hear it in the grass,

each blade stiffening

like a spine learning to stay straight

in a season built to break it.

The air tasted of metal and memory,

the kind of cold

you only notice

when it starts to feel like honesty.

Light shifted,

not fading,

but surrendering,

laying itself gently

over everything that refused to bow.

It caught on the frozen petals,

turned them into something holy,

or lonely,

or maybe both.

And still they stayed.

Bright.

Defiant.

Already half-gone,

but refusing the silence

that comes before the fall.

I realized then

that autumn doesn’t end,

it endures

until it can’t anymore.

It stands in the frost

like those yellow flowers,

knowing it’s losing,

but still choosing

to stay warm for one more second

against the cold.

And I felt it,

that tender, impossible bravery

of something fragile,

unprotected,

still offering colour

to a world

already preparing

to forget it.