Winter is a hush.
I live in New England, and in one of our snowstorms, all is silent. The world wraps itself in dense dunes and floes of white, and the streets are quiet save for the plows and salt-trucks. My dog’s paws make no sound on the snow, and it rises above his head; some years, it rises above mine, and I’m almost walking in a tunnel. A private quiet secret world. Although of course I prefer to be indoors, and perhaps that’s where you’ll read this – wrapped in a cardigan or under a blanket, one hand wrapped around a mug of hot cocoa or tea, listening to the world.
This season, I bring you poems of quiet, of absence, of curling inward. We rest so that we can later bloom.
The soundtrack for this issue is Zoe Keating’s Snowmelt; you can listen and purchase here: https://music.zoekeating.com/album/snowmelt-ep
Thank you for reading, as always.
– Shira Lipkin