Today we’re featuring a lovely essay entitled “First Frost” by Libby. We love how this piece showcases Libby’s masterful use of vocabulary to express her ideas. Enjoy!
The ice-frosted grass glistens in the soft light of dawn. Glassy beads of dew bend the slender, white blades—bowing, as it seems, to hail the morning. Thrills of anticipation ring in my chest.
I close my eyes, imagining the first step to mar the pure whiteness; the delicious, crisp odor of the air stinging my lungs; the satisfying crunch of ice as it crumbles beneath my feet. Shivers of delight course through my veins.
I force my lids to lift.
Cartops and windows are glazed over with filmy crusts. Dark mushrooms dotting the field are fringed with white trimming, a frozen filigree as delicate as queen’s lace—beauty in itself! The horizon is edged with a pale-yellow hue that melts into the clear sapphire of the sky.
The sun is just peeking through the trees, casting its aureate light upon patches of the silver world. Her fingertips reach to graze the pale rooftops dipped in ice. The ruby of the maple lace is bathed in a blaze of bright as, beneath it, a knife of light slowly cuts through the icy grass.
The silver, ghost-like light cast into our little house is slowly giving way to the brazen glare of sunlight.
I sigh. The fresh morning is tainted.
My perfect world is melting, bit by bit. As the sun toils to thrust herself over the treetops, she heaves a sigh; her sultry breath sweeps through the frosted meadow.
And for one sacred moment, nature’s crystal garment glitters in the sunlight like a thousand stars, winking a thousand greetings to a transiently glorified world. For one blessed second, day meets the innocent dawn, and creation tingles with their first radiant kiss. But it is not to last.
With one final push, treacherous sun casts herself into the sky with a heavy groan. Her feverish fragrance seeps relentlessly into the earth, and the fresh sparkle of first-light is smothered.
I watch as steam begins to rise above the last frosted fence top. Drops of water catch the sun’s rays, their astral gleam dissolved.
Golden beams, like ropes, pull the sun from its hiding place behind the trees. Its warmth bursts free, banishing the mystic beauty of this ice-shrouded land.
Day has begun.
My world is not perfect anymore.
But tomorrow will come again—and with it, a new dawn.
About the Author
Libby Powell is a quiet dreamer who, despite her tendency to timidly step back from the unknown, loves God and seeks to follow him and keep her eyes on him every day – a humbling, yet beautiful reminder that God is making her new with every passing moment. Her life is mostly full of music, studies, laughter, and lots of ideas that half of the time never actually stay with her.
Some of the things she loves best in the world are quiet, frosty mornings, steaming mugs of chai tea, burrowing into her blankets with a book, and silence. Living with the great hope of Jesus’ return has given her a passion to reach the nations, including the lost people of her own, with the Gospel of Christ. Her prayer is that he will continue to transform her into his image and that her work would reflect his glory and grace.