The Silent Geometry of Frost

Silver angles spread across the glass, unfolding quietly while the house breathes down. A map of nothing, charting the empty air, it crystallizes the shape of forgotten time.

The oak outside stands stark against the gray, its branches echoing the jagged sprawl on the pane. We try to trace the logic of the cold, but winter builds without a master plan.

Only the sudden sun unravels it all, a slow weeping of light upon the ledge. What was so sharply etched becomes a blur, returning perfectly to the formless ground.