When The Breath Turns
The Breath Between Seasons
We hear the world as it turns cold.
πβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈ
Soiled roots, kissed by golden hue.
Leaves cling to iron bars, their recall heavy.
Warm air turns, its cool breath gracing my fingertips.
Asphalt steam rises, white beneath faint sunβs glow.
A crow caws β the cool airβs rattle.
πβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈ
The leaves whisper, now a guttural rustle.
The crowβs caw, a sharp screech in the ear.
Chimneys clear their throats with fiery puff.
Frost builds on wooden eaves.
πβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈ
Woodsmoke razes the throat.
Wisps of warm, frost-tinged breath fill the air.
Pine scent turns to rust β the Earthβs belt tightens.
Skin prickles beneath old warmthβs shun.
πβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈ
Glass panes fog; my form shows β then goes.
A new dawn berates the cooling twilight.
Crumbling crackle under boots β it comes,
And the Earth welcomes it with pause.
πβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈπβοΈ
Original First Frost poem by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
For Mikeydred's November Challenge--
And Vocal's First Frost Challenge:
About the Creator
Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin
Hi, i am an English Language teacher cum freelance writer with a taste for pets, prose and poetry. When I'm not writing my heart out, I'm playing with my three dogs, Zorra, Cloudy and Snowball.
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also become a paid subscriber, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.