Change of State

I'd rather freeze than boil, yet freezing... when it hits 32 degrees, oh how the world feels it. And the island, a microcosm itself, slows- the brooks get sluggish and glassine, morning breaks and the thoroughfare barely even suggests the breath of the tide and current. For the time being, the wind has blown itself out and bereft of leaves, the trees stand still, stark.

This year the cold came on quick, a snap from the arctic chasing away the foggy wraiths of our final warm spell. Weather, like death and heartbreak, is an inevitability which, no matter how you prepare for it will always come as a shock. For weeks I had been romanticizing winter: the sledding, the snow fights; but in all of my imagining- the gentle drift of snow falling n the moonlight, the twinkle of stars in crystalline skies- I failed to fully recall the pain of cold, how it feels when the cells of your cheeks and fingers begin to freeze.

Time to acclimate, as the Northern body always does: the temp that makes me pull on a parka today will see me stripping down to a tee come March. As I walked to the landing this morning I watched Brimstone Island float above the line of the Southern horizon on illusory wings of water and light. I will fall for the trick, and make my peace with the harsh wonders of a slow, dark season: cover my cheeks and widen my eyes.

I am only left with one question: would one's lips freeze to a flask?