The Silent Geometry of Frost

A sudden brittle lattice on the pane, tracing rivers that freeze before they fall. The house exhales a slow, white breath against the creeping dark.

Under the oak, the earth is iron-bound, each blade of grass a splinter of pale glass. The crows sit silent in the upper boughs, heavy with the cold.

We wait for morning like a distant promise, watching the silver spread across the yard. Even the shadows seem to hold their breath in the geometry of frost.