The Silent Geometry of Frost

Silver needles thread the window pane, Stitching breathless patterns in the dark. A quiet mathematics claims the glass, Unfolding fractal forests overnight.

The breath of sleeping hounds turns to ash, Suspended in the heavy, freezing air. Even the pulse of the old oak clock Seems thick and slow, hesitant to strike.

Morning will shatter this fragile crystal map, Melting the intricate, cold cartography. But for now, the world holds perfectly still, Trapped inside a single, frozen breath.