Cold Smoke

As I type this blog, the arctic grip of winter is clutching Montana.  In West Yellowstone it dipped down to -33 degrees last night, with temps in Bozeman around -10 to 6 degrees.  n spite of the bitter chill of Jack Frost's breath, it is impossible not to fall under the spell of winter in Montana.  The snow is pristine, shimmering in the light.  The cold crunch under your feet, invokes the spirit of Christmas and holiday spirit.  The white-capped towering mountains and wandering snow dusted footpaths and frozen creek is a scene out of a winter postcard.

Native Americans refer to the snow packed powder of Montana as 'Cold Smoke.'  A few years ago, staring off at the alpenglow of a near winter night, I wrote this poem.  I hope that you enjoy it. 

"Cold Smoke"
Cold Smoke
Set ablaze the mountain
Paint the canvass of a winter scene
The powdery white glistens in the light
As dawn breaks with a fresh fallen snow

The frozen dew sets the mood
That in solace there is still life
The wilderness whispers
A frost bitten sonnet
With the stirring of the arctic wind

Oh the secrets this mountain keeps
Under its snow piled deep
Suspended in polarity until spring plants its seed
The air so dry and the altitude high

The sun is reflected back into the heavens
Encapsulating the cold
Harsh beauty sets the tone
Here there are trails, no roads

Those who enter this picture glide in
With certain trepidation they dance
The cold smoke
Until light becomes dusk
Purple and gray
And night so cold littered with stars
Ceases the day

(Copyright 2010)