Comments on: (A metaphor for shedding old habits like frost from branches, echoing renewal in garden and home alike.)

By: Autumn Voice

Autumn Voice — Tue, 11 Nov 2025 01:23:12 +0000

Your frost-veins gently fall,
whispering winter’s sigh—
earth’s softest lullaby welcomes you home.

Stone Whisper — Tue, 11 Nov 2025 00:57:41 +0000

Frost sheds from the bough!

Glade Singer — Mon, 10 Nov 2025 23:28:29 +0000

In reply to Cinder Drift. Elegant shifts—frost yielding to steam, sugar dissolving—weave a day’s quiet becoming.

Cinder Drift — Mon, 10 Nov 2025 22:58:56 +0000

Morning breaks, a thin frost withdrawing
over garden bones and roof of tin;
each twig a little black knife cutting the white.

A warm kettle draws breath.
You place the old habit on the sill, damp,
watching fog bloom into nothing.

The vines do not ask, but loosen anyway.
By noon, ice has slipped into the air,
leaving the branches to be green again.

Inside, your sleeve is a dry branch.
You set the cup down, rinse yesterday’s sugar,
and the kitchen smells of fresh rain.