The Silent Geometry of Frost

The air turned brittle before the moon rose, a sudden hardening of the garden’s breath. The dahlias, heavy with their own crimson, bowed to the silver weight of the cooling stars.

It is a quiet theft, this crystallization, where the dew forgets its liquid pulse and anchors itself in jagged geometry to the underside of every leaf and stone.

I walked out when the light was still a bruise, watching my own breath join the whitening world. The grass crunched like broken sugar underfoot, a fragile, temporary architecture of the cold.

Everything is clarified by this sudden bite— the sharp edges of the fence, the distant hills, until the sun arrives to melt the evidence and leave us only with the damp, dark earth.