—the aftertaste of October still in the air

The first frost never shouts, it waits,
a silver breath on porch rail grates,
a shimmer caught in cooling steam,
the world half-waking from a dream.
The coffee cools, the light grows slow,
your hands learn what the maples know.

You drink, and taste the edge of air,
that sharp, electric, thinning prayer.
Each sip is smoke, each thought, a wing,
the sound of nothing, listening.
You hold the cup until it stings,
and let it burn your remembering.

Outside, the ground is glazed with ghost.
The year forgets what it loved most.
You finish slow. The mug breathes white.
The frost outlasts the morning light.
And in that pause, before it fades,
you almost feel unafraid.

📜 First Frost in the Mug – The Recipe

Ingredients:

Instructions:
Brew before sunrise, when the house still hums in sleep. Wrap your hands around the mug and step outside. Watch the frost outline what you forgot to bring in. Drink slowly enough to see your reflection dissolve. Do not reheat. Some things are meant to cool.