Sometimes the frost comes early when it might

Have held its crystallizing of the leaves.

But it views warmth as pain, and so believes

It must be kind and decimate the night.

I view the wilted shrouds in morning light

That once were strong, with sap-coursed veins alert

To sun, to rain. But a particular hurt

Like frost, inflexible, is structured tight

As iron bands, and nothing can assert

Itself against the freezing of the sap,

Which stunts the stem and leaf, and leaves a gap

That cannot soon be filled, until the dirt

Warms in another season, and the sight

Of seedlings once again can put things right.