From the land of wine and movies,
better known as California,
I headed north to a snowy wonderland of ice,
known as the last frontier, Alaska.
I only knew of rain and fog and mist,
not of ice and snow and frost,
and all nuances in between
in the land that births our winter storms.
Whether snows come down like tremendous flakes
or tiny knifes of ice,
when you peer out from a window
it creates the same silent world of white.
It may form tiny balls that brush away like powder
or sparkly crystalline snow to catch your eye,
slurpy, slushy snow is heavy on your shovel,
and its weight might fold the snow upon the fenceline.
It can be so light it drifts in whisper waves across the roads,
or shimmy down to create snow snakes on light poles,
and you know when the temperature nears zero degrees
for the snow squeaks under your feet.
Layers pile on top of layers, and machines slice through to reform paths
that reveal patterns of dirty snow and fresh snow that look quite like baklava,
but when you add the high winds along the Turnagain Arm into the mix
the garbage crew might have to skate across your icy street so that they can collect your trash.