Baking Alaska

The air is cold and grey, the morning bleak.
Your breath escapes, condensing into steam.
A trail of salty water on your cheek.
Inexorable crushing of a dream,
or just a gust of wind against raw skin?
Wind finds its way through every nook and fold,
attempting to subdue you, to get in,
to freeze your innards; to declare: you're old!
What business have you here among the pines,
here in the land of icicle and snow
which nature shapes in intricate designs,
where man has yet to rule or overthrow,
but soon will learn the earth exacts a price
for winning when the game is on thin ice.