The Silent Geometry of Frost

A thin film of glass overtakes the puddle, Fractal hands reach from the edges Mapping an architecture of sudden cold, Before the sun remembers its obligation.

Breath hangs in the stagnant air, A momentary ghost of the living machine. The pavement accepts its white inheritance, Each blade of grass a rigid spear.

Somewhere beneath this brittle silence, Roots clutch the dark earth, dreaming. They do not mourn the lost warmth, But wait out the geometry of the freeze.