The Architecture of Frost

The pines have stripped themselves of noise, standing as dark obelisks against the bruised sky, waiting for the geometry of ice to take hold.

Beneath the needle-fall, a quiet suspension, where the breath of the earth slows to a heavy crystal, and shadows lengthen like thin blue smoke.

There is no argument in this failing light, only the brittle consent of the branches yielding to the sudden weight of the stars.