the first blow of winter

it sounds
different, here,
the wind.
first:
it doesn’t whip through
the trees and slice across
the fields,
with an ominous
tone,
but loudly
carves out a path
around houses and
condos and
strip malls,
wailing as if it’s
somehow
wounded.
back home, where
home used to be,
the wind
was regal,
ruling and
winter felt different.
or sounded so.
the snow falls
different, too,
it seems.
back home,
where home used
to be,
it dropped.
here, it is battered
about, until it
finally seems to give
up its flailing and
settle.
it might be just me.
or not,
but back home,
where, home used to
be, I would light
a fire and winter
would smell like
winter.
here,
winter doesn’t smell
at all.
back home,
where home used to
be winter
felt warmer, too,
even when it wasn't.