—Claire Jussel


Can I be sick of this yet?
You remind me of my first dog
who ran away Christmas morning
into the field where we found the cow
bone and the lamp cord hanging on a tree.


You never told me how
New York City winters tend
to bleed. Lambswool and rye
whiskey aren’t common knowledge
I didn’t know to seek high noon.

          —Joshua Massey


                                                                   the risk of opening myself up frost flowers

                                                                             —Shloka Shankar


                              rather a cold flat
                              your old cat, and the endless
                              stream of your insults

                                        —Laila Woozeer



Warm soda is something new to me
But there’s a proper chill in the air
Five years ago, we grabbed suitcases
No longer entertaining dreams of being here
I ask our Family Mart window reflections, “Who are these kids?”

          —Ariane Lauren


                                                                   we tried to interpret the mountain
                                                                   but did not lift the cover of snow
                                                                   home is underfoot
                                                                   & growing


                                                                   I have tried to revise
                                                                   the birds’ leaving
                                                                   but cannot reach
                                                                   their latitudes

                                                                             —Alex Tretbar


from Ten Runes in Verglas

The struggle is over, the struggle is won.
The ice sheet is melting off the roof;
A metronome ensues, a dripping:
The closest thing to music Today.

          —John Lilac


            When it’s the same in Fahrenheit and Celsius

I never imagined I’d hanker
                for forty below
―my blue-sky winters
                when an intake of breath
could burn your throat.

                      —Frances Boyle



                                                                   i made a baby all by myself
                                                                   out of compressed mud and
                                                                   snow and green needles it smells
                                                                   like trees and earth and cold and if
                                                                   i bring it inside it will die

                                                                             —Rae Diamond



                              Thorney Island, Valentine’s Day

                              I surprised a pair of courting lapwings
                              a monochrome morse of flight,
                              all dark dots and white flashes.
                              They left their call a wave length away
                              the sound of a radio being tuned in
                              finding the frequency of each other.

                              —Morgan Melhuish



because you know how to empty, how to open, like snow blossoms unfurling in the losses between teeth.

          —Carina Solis


          —Debbie Strange


                              in winter’s blackness Horsehead

                              even the weeds rest winter garden

                              against a white sky the bones of trees

                              red mountain flickering the evening alpenglow

                                        —Norma Bradley


                              Lights and Geography

Alpine Diwalis and ice veins through silk buntings

The wick of the reindeer lamp softens to kohl

and, in the smoke of this foreign wood,

Amma’s Tamil calendar glows turmeric,

like a sun we had forgotten we packed.

                                        —Suchi Govindarajan


                                                                      This poem is short

                                                                      Winter is so damn long.

                                                                                —Andy Perrin


                              Self portrait as darkest day of the year

                              or a day when a broom can stand upright
                              in uncanny defiance of balance. Where
                              everything is supposed to get better from.
                              A sunset I watch still behind the counter
                              at work. At night I walk home in the dark.


                              Self portrait as light reflecting

                              off of the bedazzled cowboy hat
                              to the ether of the living room.
                              Specular refractions ghostlike
                              in the corner. Ungraspable fly
                              on the wall—an incident.

                                        —Aoife Smith



sink in these blue palms;; ?
        my roseghost – (left me) sprinkled like
frozen berries on fresh snow (my blue palms are too blue)
                                     ,,,,,,, roseghost,
go home ..

          —dre levant


          —Lena Rivkah Hunsicker


                              baobab leaves
                              falling from the book of psalms
                              kwanzaa dawn

                              chicago sunrise
                              last night’s soot
                              on the piled-up snow

                                        —Deborah A. Bennett


                                                                      wipers wipers
                                                                      a drenched pied wagtail
                                                                      by a dustbin

                                                                                —Jim Young


                                                                                Midlife, mid-Chanukkah

                                                                                It’s the fifth night and my very soul
                                                                                is saturated—press my edge
                                                                                and your finger is greased. I’m in need
                                                                                of patting down with a paper towel,
                                                                                the blotter bleeding gold.

                                                                                —Ayelet Amittay


On Our Last Date in the City, I Asked About Lake-Effect Snow

Just a table between us,
I peel an orange while you tell me about your sister.
Remember? My body blushes because I said I know how this scene ends
& you objected! Your honor, god, whoever: I’ve recalled this dream before.
Each time you push your chair back & bruise me like a windchill.

          —Shannon Hardwick


                              Waxing Crescent – Winter

                              The moon’s chip sliver a lodestone
                              laughing sly Cheshire grin
                              an axe head hanging over
                              I’ll shatter before the freeze lifts
                              fractal patterns, shadow stretching.

                                        —Erika Gill


          —Kip Knott