I left the house with a knit scarf round my neck
that my best friend from childhood knitted
my favorite color
but only if you look closely.
And I realized
as I traipsed outside
that exhalations were visible and
I should probably remember to
unearth my mittens from their summer hiding place
in the garage downstairs.
In Alaska, you learn to smell the snow, just a few weeks before you can see it on the mountains.
And the weather silences
even the most persistent cacauphony
of traffic sounds on the nearby highway
even with three hundred thousand people imposing their city-esque lifestyles on your backyard.
And I realized, as I embraced the season change, for better or for worse
my solemn divide
may not just be the cycle of life
but a representation of
the beginning of my end.