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.

Scarf.  Scarf.

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.

Copyright 2010


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