Ode To First Frost Poem by Sonny Rainshine

Ah, there you are at last,
you with your silver knife,
an icy glint in your eye.
Nosferatu from the North, you will siphon sap
like blood tonight.

Your arrival this year
has been late, but the clarion calls,
anxious, flustered geese
enchanted by a cyclical magnetism,
impossible to resist,
like Bela Lugosi’s eyes,
assemble into V’s
and leave us behind,
huddled in our houses,
blundled in our false feathers.

You’ve not spared one
lingering aster, not one
ivy runner from your
killing touch; the crystaline crust
stings like the wasps of summer.

Are you proud to be
nature’s executioner?
Do you shiver in your own
lonely frigidity?

I’ll try to understand your purpose
for being, and marvel at the delicate lace
you leave behind to mark
your victims, but come March
I’ll be sorting my seeds for next year
and burying for you your dead.