The Edge of Winter

Ghost
of a glacier. Thin
memory of an ice age.
Creeping through September,
Fairbanks, Iqaluit.
Tracing mountain valleys
southward. Mocking
a tired failing sun,
claiming the land.

First frost
is not the edge of winter
neither is the first snowfall.
Winter is ice that will carry
a man’s weight without
hesitation.
Grimly resisting the axe
as livestock stand in the morning
waiting for water.

The edge
of winter is not a weekend
in Vail or Whistler. Winter
is kneeling in the snow trying
to light a fire, wet to the bone,
in urgent need of shelter. Winter
sits silent in a frozen room,
waiting for a cheque,
saving the oil for someone else.