First Frost of the Season

It was the first frost of the season
and all the flora was glittering
in the sunrise stretching out from
the brilliant golden sky.
Night had taken what was left
of the season of warmth and abundance
and covered it in crystal ice,
now ensuring the onset of the next transition: death.
But what beauty there lies in this time
in between the sharp bite and sting of the cold;
And to further uncover this beauty
perhaps one has to open to the grief —
genuinely, with acceptance and curiosity.
For no cloak of shame for allowing
to truly and deeply feel the pain of loss to usher in
is insulated enough to weather us through.
The cloak of shame is thin, it’s ragged and dirty;
May we instead wrap ourselves
in the thick blanket that is grief
that offers to us not just protection,
but a reprieve from the shivering
so that we may see with clarity
that death does not come in permanence,
but indeed it’s the phase that precedes
and sets the very foundations for
a birth, or a rebirth, or a renewal.
And if we pause and open our eyes to the grief
we can perhaps see the beauty of that
even now through our tears.
For as death and decay are necessary to birth,
grief is necessary to heal.
That is the lesson of the first frost in the dawn
spoken through the frigidly fringed vegetation
in the withering cold, but with beauty.