The Weight of Frost

The weight of frost— how it settles on the world like a held breath, crystallizing the space between sleep and morning, each blade of grass becomes a small witness.

The birds know something we don't. They arrive in deliberate silence, testing the frozen air, their wings cutting paths through stillness.

By noon the sun barely makes a promise. Light bends through ice and glass and doubt, the world grows thin at its edges, ready to shatter or be reborn.

I choose to wait. In this suspended moment, all things are possible— the frost could be a beginning or an ending, and I am finally enough in the not-knowing.