The Unspoken Song of Crystals

On threads of grass, a veil of silver bright,
on cold glass panes, an extinguished light.
A thousand tiny, shining crystals gleam,
born from the frost, silent, waking dream.
Each point holds secrets, hushed and deep,
a fleeting moment that the silence keeps.
They have no voice, they whisper not a sound,
yet tell of worlds in splendor all around,
of fragile glory, a white wonder shown.
It is a song of light, with heat unknown,
that speaks of forms, of dances so ethereal,
hidden within cold rooms, minute and sheer.
An unexpressed hymn that the soul can seize,
before the sun, benevolent, brings them ease.
A silent murmur, a melody so chill,
that fades at dawn, pure magic standing still.
And in the eye remains a vivid trace,
of frost’s sweet song, sublime embrace.