Colden Vortex

"A winter's day, in a deep and dark December"
(With thanks to Paul Simon)

Cold as brittle as icicles hanging from branches and eaves 

Bitter and breathtaking, it turns exhalation into frozen mist 
and exultation into gasping pain.  

The popping and crackling of ice-laden branches, the syncopated snapping of logs and lit kindling;
the sharp tang of pine, incense of wood smoke, sweet, acrid, and ozone.  

The wind, like lashes on exposed skin, whips inflamed flesh into white and red weals, freezing tears in squinting eyes.  

Blue and grey skies, frost-bitten toes,
grey-blue fingers,  inflamed dripping nose;
running like a cataract over an ice-slicked slope. 

The Polar vortex eddies and roils through the town.  

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
 © 29 December 2017