The frost sings in crystalline tones, its whispers caught between latticed ice and the breath of a bygone sun. Are we the echoes of that sound? When the night bugs complain with frostbitten jaws, it is the frost's responsibility, a minister of rust and shadow, scribing eternity on glass, the ghosts of half-remembered songs, melting to rhyme and reason.
Secrets buried beneath frozen lakes
- can they whisper back, softly bemused by the questions of roots and independent intercedents? Reach not while shivering;
frost will glean and productively reconfigure vibrations.
Contemplations—fractured with mana; careless anonymity bestowed upon colors warmed individually upon terminal intricacies within alcoves that no moss touches. Bodies configured not as water falls, nor intended as compliance for machinery. Marvel at this disturbance, the music, syllables folded among predestined lamella.