The Architecture of a Sudden Frost

The night held its breath in a silver jar, Watching the temperature slip through its fingers, A quiet alchemy, unannounced, As if the air had forgotten how to flow.

The lawn is no longer a soft carpet, But a field of brittle glass needles, A million tiny daggers catching the moon, Singing a sharp, cold song when stepped upon.

On the window, the frost has grown its own forest, Ferns of ice that have no need for soil, A skeletal map of a place we have never been, Drawn in the silent hours before the sun.

There is a strange clarity in the bite, A sharpening of the world's soft edges, Until the day's first breath begins to melt This delicate cathedral of the morning.