frost

white crystals sprouted and sprinkled
over green grass and shallow waters
forming thin sheets of miniature suns,
ever growing, ever fusing, ever blinding

forcing what has not yet changed
into a diamondy dress, to be kept safe,
and into a long, deep, undisturbed sleep;
a false sense of time, itself, stopping

the frost alone will keep on going,
growing, building layers upon layers
of thin sheets of self-repairing glass
until the world is nothing but pure, white beauty

but there is always an end to this aggression
always, just like it returns, always
the end will come with a bow to the sun,
then begin again when we look away, voiceless

all this slow death, all this rapid life
due to the tilt of an axis.