Frost rises before dawn and flees the garden bed
before Sun can catch her in her splendor.
Faster than squirrels she runs across fields and rivulets
leaving white crystals trailing behind in a momentary glittery shine
across the folds of orange and gold left by falling leaves
that shimmer in the slight breeze of Sun-warmed air
to prepare us for the day to come.
Each morning I rise and try to catch Frost by surprise,
but she is too slick, too quick; and I, now too slow.
She laughs in my face with icy breath until I am so cold
my limbs tremble as the those of the trees shedding leaves.
I shed my earthly dreams as frost awakens me to journeys ahead.
Frost is a fleeting thing, reminding me that I am, too.
Frost has turned my hair white; it seems, overnight.
And so I say, “Good morning, Frost.”
And she replies, “Good morning, you.”
Such days are numbered, and too few.
annarino writes 