Frost is another one of those words that seems to have been around forever, coming to us from close Middle and Old English forms meaning "freezing, becoming frozen or extreme cold". The present noun form is cognate with Old Saxon, High German and Norse words claiming the same ancestral roots. Then there are the Proto Germanic frusta and Old High German vorst, both related to the old verb freosan meaning "to freeze". Somewhere back there are Old Saxon, Frisian and Dutch kindred, and at the root of it all, the PIE (Proto-Indo-European language) preus which seems to have described processes of both freezing and burning.
Recent studies predicate that PIE has been around since at least 3700 BCE, long before the common era, and it may have been in use much earlier than that. When thinking about such things, I am wrapped anew in reverence for words and language and the commonalities of earthly existence right back to the beginning times.
A fine day is rising beyond the windows, skies in multitudinous shades of lavender, purple and gold, the sun coming up behind the ash trees in the garden, geese winging overhead out to stubbly fields to feed. The air is filled with their songs and exuberance on this brisk first morning of November.
There are lacy scraps of frost on the cobblestones and roof tiles of the village. Dauntless Virginia creeper vines in the hedgerows seem to be undeterred by the night's plummeting temperatures, but they're turning red, violet and burgundy, and they look as though their jaunty stance is darned hard work.
The leaves of the roses in our hedgerow are clad in frost this morning, each and every crystal clearly defined and sparkling like a gem in the early light. Even the thorns are fetching in their deep reds. Blue sky, silver and platinum frost crystals, russet and gold rose leaves dancing in the wind - who says there is no color about in late autumn and early winter? One has only to look, and the best time for looking is just as the sun is coming up over the trees.
Happy November, everyone!