Frost

Grass, thinly crusted.
Bitter winds blow purposefully along the planar ground,
Recklessly skirting each fragile quill.
Still, the blades stand unwavering.

Every crunchy footfall is a catalyst to a misty shell;
As sunbeams sparkle in the ice and air,
They whisper the blinding, twinkling truth.
Joy exists in the coldest of temperatures.

Oh winter, my close companion!
How graciously you have come,
With such bonhomie!
So innocent is the dance of light you bring.

“From whose womb did the ice come forth, and who has given birth to the frost of heaven?”–Job 38:29

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