It is such a horribly perfect word, one sharp in looks and quick in action.
Scarf. Scarf. Scarf.
Somewhere in the tundra wasteland, a voodoo juju mama coughs up this sound and catches it like a spiky iceball in her ancient frozen fingers.
It melts into a slush of possibility.
She knits scarf with icicle needles.
She spins scarf into sleet and snow.
She fashions scarf into a barren icon.
The arctic blast answers her call and grabs her creation, holding it aloft as a glacial banner.
Winter screams its battle cry, terrorizing autumn, intimidating spring, waving scarf as its flag of dominion.
All of this goes through my head as I kiss you goodbye and tie a red woolen scarf around your naked neck.