December in Alaska

Late in the day. Standing on the porch. Frost in my beard. Eyelashes getting icy too.
Peering into the depths of an Alaskan winter.

The days are short now, with cold that steals your breath, cracks your skin. 

Old snow's compressed and gray, but more will fall soon. 

Trees, blown free of snow, appear as sentinels across white hills and frozen river valley.
The sky so blue it can't be real.

Night, long and bitter, rolls in with electric colors dancing across the heavens.
The dark pushed back by reflected light from the white cloak looks warmer than it is.

Spring will come, a few seconds, then a few minutes closer each day.
But now, it is dark, cold, and the margin of life oh so slim.
Thank the stars for the house whose foot thick walls seem perilously thin.
Warmth, a near fictional idea, lingers beneath consciousness.

Morning will come, long before the pale sun makes its slim arc across the southern sky.
It's heat returned to space by the white blanket.

The woods wisely sleep, knowing growth and effort will be wasted in the bitter air;
Animal and plant alike patiently wait for the heat, the melting, still long months away.
Yet we Nacirema, bustle and scurry, unable to rest, unwilling to just be
Missing the essence of life, death, rebirth and time.