It is such a horribly perfect word,

sharp in looks, staccato in speech.

Scarf. Scarf.

Somewhere in the tundra wasteland,

a voodoo juju mama coughs up this sound,

catches it like a spiky iceball

in ancient frozen fingers,

watches as it melts

into the slush of possibility.


She knits the word with icicle needles,

spins it into sleet and snow,

fashions it into a barren icon.

Scarf. Scarf.

The arctic blast answers her call,

grabs her creation,

holds it aloft, a glacial banner.

Winter screams its battle cry,

terrorizing autumn,

intimidating spring,

waving scarf as its flag of dominion

as I kiss you goodbye,

tying a red woolen scarf

around your naked neck.

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