FROST

Frost arrives in darkness and disappears by mid-morning. In those brief hours before the sun claims it, ice crystals build entire worlds on glass, on leaves, on the forgotten surfaces we walk past without seeing. I wake early to find these moments—not for the spectacle of a frozen landscape, but for the intimacy of what happens when water becomes geometry.

Up close, frost is architecture: feathers and fractals, dendrites branching like winter trees in miniature. Each pattern is unrepeatable, shaped by temperature, humidity, the microscopic texture of whatever it touches. Light moves through these crystalline forms differently than through anything else—sharper, more fleeting, already beginning to melt.

What draws me to frost is its absolute temporality. It exists in the margins of the day, visible only to those willing to meet it on its terms. By the time most people wake, it's gone—but for a few quiet hours, the ordinary becomes luminous.