The First Frost

The silver teeth of morning bite the edges of the maple leaf, turning copper to brittle glass before the sun can claim its gold.

Breath hangs in the doorway, a ghost of tea and wakefulness, dissolving into the grey light that smells of iron and old wood.

The garden is a cathedral of silence, where the brittle stalks of lavender bow under the weight of diamonds scattered by a reckless, invisible hand.