Whispers of Winter: The First Frost

Upon the fields, in quiet drift,

The first frost falls, a gentle gift;

A silver breath across the earth,

Transforming all to scenes of mirth.

No trumpet sounds, no mighty sweep,

Just night's cool fingers, soft and deep,

That paint the leaves with icy lace,

And weave a spell of fragile grace.

The pumpkins, bright in autumn's hue,

Now wear a glaze of ghostly blue;

The faded flowers, once so bold,

Are rimmed in rings of silver cold.

Along the path, where footsteps tread,

The blades of grass lie frosted, dead;

Yet under dawn’s first golden glance,

They glisten, shiver, spark, and dance.

Beneath bare trees, a wonderland,

Where branches stretch in crystal strands;

Each twig adorned in hoarfrost beads,

As winter's hand performs its deeds.

The fallen leaves, a carpet thin,

Now shroud the ground in shining skin;

Each one a tiny mirrored plate,

Reflecting skies, both dim and great.

The garden fence, the rusted gate,

The porch where summer love would wait,

Are silver-lined and softly stilled,

With winter’s early beauty filled.

And on the rooftops, white as snow,

The chimneys sigh in morning’s glow,

While curls of smoke in silence climb,

To mark the passage into time.

The ponds are hushed in brittle skin,

As ducks in wonder tiptoe in;

They test the ice with gentle fear,

Then waddle back, with honks so clear.

Upon the hills, where shadows play,

Frost dances in the dawning ray;

Each blade of grass, each twig, each stone,

Glimmers in light, alone, alone.

Children with scarves and mittens bright

Tread softly in this cold, pale light;

They breathe out clouds like dragons bold,

Their cheeks pink-flushed in winter’s hold.

The first frost spells a world anew,

In hues of white, of grey, of blue;

It holds a peace, a soft allure,

A moment pure, serene, and sure.

Yet brief it is, this magic caught,

This silent spell that morning wrought;

For soon the sun’s warm breath will rise

And melt the frost before our eyes.

The rooftops lose their powdered gleam,

The crystal webs lose light and dream;

The fields will once more wake and grow,

As frost retreats to winter’s flow.

Still, in that dawn, a spell remains—

A fleeting touch, like soft refrains,

That tells of snow and nights to come,

When winter’s reign at last has come.

For in this fragile, fleeting view,

We glimpse a world both old and new—

The season’s start, a quiet grace,

That leaves its mark on time and place.

So pause, and breathe, and take it in,

This fragile world, so fine and thin;

For winter whispers soft and slow,

In frost’s first touch, in dawn’s first glow.