—this poem leans into sensory wonder, cold clarity, and the first real acknowledgment that the world has changed overnight
It falls without permission first,
soft static drifting from the blue,
a thousand quiet declarations
landing where the world feels new.
You step outside, the mug still warm,
steam rising like a second breath.
A flake dissolves upon your tongue,
a fleeting taste of gentle death.
The cold rewrites your morning pulse,
slows each thought to crystalline.
The trees hold out their brittle palms,
as if to catch what you define.
Another sip, another flake,
the cup and sky begin to rhyme.
You stand between two kinds of warmth,
the one you drink,
the one you trust
for just a moment’s borrowed time.
📜 First Snow on the Tongue – The Recipe
Ingredients:
- 1 cup hot coffee (fresh enough to steam in the cold)
- The first snowfall of the year
- One open mouth, curious but cautious
Instructions:
Step outside while the snow is still deciding who it wants to be. Hold the mug close, it will shield you from your own hurry. Taste one snowflake as it lands, note how quickly wonder melts. Sip while the world resets its brightness. Finish before the flurries forget their shape.