Winter is coming

On chill days

Such as this ,

My mind returns

To creaking icy

Banks of the

Souris River,

Rambling through

Forested thickets

In the depths

Of a North Dakota

winter, many,

Many years ago.

Oddly, there is

Still a sharp aroma

Of creosote lingering

As I wander among

My recollection of

The frozen river’s banks.

Mingling with pine

And utter, bitter cold,

The acrid fragrance

Still drowns my

Latent senses,

Some 55 years hence.

Under my issue

Arctic Parka

I am impervious

To the sting of

Bitter cold but

Each crunch of boots

Through icy crusts

And boughs reassures

Me, brings me

A strangely bucolic

Peacefulness.

God has briefly

Pulled me away

From bombers and

Missiles, laden

With nuclear death,

To savor the perfection

Of nature’s subtle peace

In this intoxicating,

Heavenly scented

Winter wilderness,

So far from home.