Frost Learns Forgetting

In the garden, frost writes what the night refuses to keep— crystalline proof of absence, each blade its own small memorial.

By noon it will be only the wet grass's memory, the ground breathing out its loss.

But now, this morning cold, the spider's web becomes a thing of silver light and knowing, a map drawn in the half-dark.

Everything that touches the turning world must learn to let the sun erase it.