The Frost.

At dawn, after a bitter cold night
Silver crystal is what you see.
The sun, it does have a fight
to get the frost to flee.

The bitter cold wind will blow
to freeze the icy tear,
like water, it does flow
with the shivering of fear.

On the brittle, stiff grass,
a silver glittering shroud;
everything glinting like glass
a silver, spikey cloud.

Little frozen drops of dew,
coating each and every leaf.
And if greenery is too few,
grin, and it'll coat your teeth.

Ghostly plumes of air do float
way up into the sky,
drifting over the rocking boat,
floating away so high.

The sky that is so blue
and yet bitterly cold,
reflected in a drop of dew
collected in a crease or fold.

Standing, shivering in the dawn,
seeing the sun come creeping
and the frost to lose it's form,
will slowly still the weeping.



Don't growl at me, I wrote that a couple years ago, when I was ...about 14 I think. One of my earlier poems and not the standard that I usually have now in regards to my poetry. That wasn't today by the way, wasn't quite cold enough for the frost to be still visible when I was waiting for my bus, but on that day, it was. It looked almost like snow, except much...thinner, and more dirty since you can see the dead grass and the brown dirt through the frozen water.

I wonder if you'll pick up on the undertones of that poem? Most only see the brighter tones, the beauty I'm describing in the cold morning. Story of my childhood, you could say. Cold beauty yet...