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Winter Grief

Poetry by Catherine Prentice

In the cold, bleak midwinter
Creeping mists descended
Holding her branches and twigs
In an ever tighter embrace
Restless life in twists and turns
Seized into waiting for rebirth
Could not lift spirits or comfort
Her beating heart, broken in place
The gnarled frame of love itself
So heavy, ready to give, to yield
There, touched by dark winds
Freezing her tears to her face


Catherine Prentice is an emerging writer who enjoys being an active member of The Alexandra Writers’ Centre Society in Calgary, Alberta. Originally from the UK, she moved to Canada with her family in 2007, where she trained, and works as a Registered Nurse. Catherine volunteers many hours with Calgary Wildlife rescue.

Back Then

Poetry by John Attanas

Back then
after January’s first wallop
I would venture out,
camera clutched
like a family heirloom,
to capture the drifts,
the overwhelmed shrubs,
the laden branches,
bending under the weight
of the watery white powder.
Back then
the cold didn’t
press on my heart,
tear at my cheeks.
I was one
with the silence
of the snow filled streets
certain that morning was
more beautiful than any
that had come before.

Now
I sit on a Florida patio
watching the waves
lap the sand
pull on a sweater
it’s barely 65.
Now
I walk the beach
one mile in each direction
imagine swimming to Portugal
then clean my toes
of sand and muck
before I head back
for lunch,
a nap,
and a half-hearted attempt
to put pen to paper
before the evening news.


John Attanas recently graduated from the MFA program at the City College of New York. He is 63 years old. His poetry has been published in Promethean, Mistake House, The Marbled Sigh, Steam Ticket, The RavensPerch, and Abandoned Mine.

Kinds of Snow

Poetry by Ruth Zwald

and suddenly you are back in your grandmother’s tiny kitchen / she warms
fresh milk / stirring in sugar and cocoa powder / until it is smooth and rich

this kind of snow that travels through time

and then remembering snow where your sled won’t fly / too heavy / your
fingers frostbitten / it hurts so much as you begin to thaw out by the radiator

I know you know this kind of snow when life is cold and painful and stuck

and there is magic snow / just before Christmas kind of snow / when the moon
reflects the crystals / you want to watch all night to glimpse what might be

this kind of snow in the dark where anything is possible

and there’s the “I’m so glad I don’t have to drive anywhere” snow / where you
can spend a day in front of the fire / read a novel about other people’s lives

this kind of snow celebrates the quiet of your own life

and there are whole winters of sorrowful snow / layered and buried in the still /
whole winters of the digging out through memories / shovel by shovelful

this kind of snow that gifts you with time to wander


On her farm in West Michigan, Ruth Zwald lives close to the earth through her lifestyle and spiritual practices. Upon retirement, she started to unearth words. Winner of the Michigan Writers Cooperative Press in 2024 for her chapbook, Bones And Breath, and recently published in Farmer-ish Journal and The Guided Weathervane.

Bunny in Brown Bear’s Coat

Poetry by Stephan Hermann

I own a coat
A big brown thing
Bought it off an old guy
In August
A few years back
When I lived in rain city.
Smelled like cigarettes
Cigarettes and dust
Dust and wear
Wear and tear.

That three dollar coat
Only one I brought with me
Back in August
When I first came here
Across the mountains.
Gets me through rain
Rain and wind
Wind and snow
Snow and snow and snow.


Stephan Hermann is a poet, creative, and student from the Pacific Northwest. Their poetry is inspired by their day to day happenings as a young, queer person navigating today’s world. When not writing, Hermann studies economics and music at Whitman College and plays desktop solitaire (rather poorly).

Puck’s Paper

Poetry by Sarah Das Gupta

I scribble a note on a summer leaf
plucked from a beech or the bole of an elm.
In autumn I write a joke on a hazel nut shell
blown and tossed through the forest dell.
When playing tricks with Oberon,
the silvery bark from the delicate birch
is fit for regal missives borne on the breeze
from the magical mists of Fairy Land.
Secret messages written in dewy ink,
in velvet darkness below a gibbous moon,
emblazon the white mushroom tops
which mark the circling fairy feet.
When icicles hang from farmyard pumps,
I trace out my thoughts on virgin snow
which last till Boreas begins to blow.
On cottage roof tops I arrange the moss
to warn the small birds of impending doom,
the bird lime which awaits them in the gloom.
Nature, through the seasons of the turning year,
passes on my messages, mischievous, yet clear.


Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK who has lived in India, Tanzania and UK. Her work has been published in magazines and anthologies in over 25 countries. She started writing aged 80, when a disabling accident limited her mobility. Nominated for Best of the Net and Dwarf Star.

Snow

Poetry by Aidan Russell

While in the night we soundly slept,
A winter storm came by
and covered all the world in white,
With snow banks piled high.

So in the morning we awoke
And looked out at the sight,
Of all the city buried deep,
in snow so clean and white.

We dressed ourselves and wandered out
Into that wonderland,
And sought to find ourselves some fun,
Though nothing we had planned.

In trudging down the empty street,
We saw no other soul,
And so alone we went along,
A solitary stroll.

Then at the park we found a bench,
Beneath a bare oak tree,
Where we decided then to sit,
The snow-filled world to see.

So there we sat upon the bench,
Just you and me alone,
And watched the winter world grow still,
And heard the cold wind moan.

What sacred beauty there we saw,
As flurries seemed to grow,
The world without mistake or flaw,
White blanketed with snow.


Aidan Russell is an American poet and filmmaker. He was a finalist in the Unity in Verse Poetry Contest. He is also the writer and director of a number of short films, most notably: A Criminal Misunderstanding and The Legend of John Henry. He lives in Southern California.

First Snow, Final Page

Poetry by Amber Lethe

The year ends quietly –
a book settling into its spine.
Snow falls in soft punctuation marks,
periods on windowsills, commas on evergreens,
ellipses hanging in the hush of afternoon.

Inside, the kettle clicks a familiar prayer,
a small applause for warmth still here.
We hold our hands to the steam and remember:
the burns, the blessings, the almosts,
the moments we meant to speak but didn’t.

Outside, the world turns blank, crystalline, kind –
as if offering us a clean margin,
urging try again, try softer, try braver.
We turn the page with mittened fingers,
ink still drying on our names.


Amber Lethe is an emerging writer whose work blends intimacy, atmosphere, and quiet surrealism. She writes about memory, seasons, and the small rituals that shape us. When not writing, she plays Vivaldi on piano, knits imperfect scarves, and reads classic books with her pug, Sir Merlin, snoring at her feet.

Poinsettias

Poetry by Kathy Pon

You wait three days on a pallet
for our return. I panic
about frost and your need
for a drink of water.
But when we open each box
red bracts burst and blaze
our home with your magic,
elegance draping each corner festive.
Our holiday breathes before us.

Years past, we drowned in excess,
gold garland and strings of blinking lights
crammed our Christmas house.
Sensory overload from rooms littered
with glittery noise that seemed
to muffle our seasonal joy.

When we found greenhouses bearing
your stalks, you brought us delight
in fields of matted crimson, candy cane
pinks and whipped-cream whites.
Your yellow-button flowers
seemed to smile at us.

Now, no need to shine up
these simple lives. Surrounded by quiet,
our orchard stitched in winter stillness,
we drink black coffee in the dark
of our winter bedroom, dogs dug in
blankets beside us — and you dance
in the hallway, poinsettia-children
lifting our spirits like a secret promise.
Each potted star radiates enough,
all the holiday we need.


Kathy Pon lives with her husband, a third-generation farmer, on an almond orchard in Central California. Her work has been featured in Passengers Journal, Canary, RockPaperPoem, The Closed Eye Open, and other places. Her chapbook, Orchard Language (Finishing Line Press) was published in October 2025.

Cheerful Misery

Poetry by Alexandria Wyckoff

Sweet cookies dip into milk, crumbs fall;
a soft clink, small sounds

that must not grow louder.
Expertly placed footsteps upon

plush carpet mark the way
as presents adorn the trees

underside; a new satin skirt.
One last glance and up the chimney;

once again prone to the elements.
Warm breath lodged in his lungs

releases itself to the bitter wind.
Snow crunches beneath his feet; not

even wool gloves protect against the
bite of metal sleigh railings. Reigns

creak against practiced hands, before
a swift snap leads eight pairs of antlers

back into inky, starlight skies.


Alexandria Wyckoff has a BA in Creative Writing from SUNY Oswego. She has one book of poetry titled The Pain Cycle, with work also appearing in BarBar, Kennings Literary Journal, The Bookends Review, and others. Find more of her work at https://www.alexandriawyckoff.com/.

Rudolf and the Flashing Red Lights

Fiction by Kenneth M. Kapp

Many explanations have been given as to how Rudolph’s nose became red. One claims that Rudolph was often found dipping in Santa’s punch bowl and another that reindeers, like dogs, were always sniffing around and once he got too close to a freshly painted fire hydrant. Nevertheless, they don’t concern our Rudolf, who was born in America and whose name is spelled with a “f.” It’s the tips of his antlers that are red and not his nose!

Rudolf is a natural leader and the head of his herd. When they are on the move, he’s at the front showing them the way, the old routes for pasture deeply etched in his mind. He’s always concerned about their well-being; on the trail he’s continually looking back, making sure everything is OK. It would be a poor leader who let his herd become sick or lost. Rudolf was not going to let it be said of him: “Tsk, Rudolf’s a poor leader, a sorry excuse for a reindeer!”

And so, he took note when the herd began showing signs of lethargy and their coats appeared rough. He circled back and began asking questions: “Donner, how’s your appetite?” “Blitzie, how long have you had this discharge from your eyes and nose?” “And, Dancer, you seem to have trouble walking, never mind dancing. What’s up?”

No one could give him an answer. Me thinks I should meditate on this. (Recently, when the herd paused at night, Rudolf read Shakespeare and now his thoughts were so peppered with “Me thinks” that he often found himself sneezing and losing his train of thought.) He knew the signs of scurvy, and he knew what to do!

“Cranberries,” he addressed the herd from a hillock, “cranberries! You need to eat cranberries. You’re manifesting signs of scurvy and need vitamin C in your diet. And cranberries are an excellent source. Tomorrow, I will lead you to a bog with wild cranberries. We’ll be there before noon!”

The entire herd cheered. And true to his words, by noon the next day, they were at the bog. Few reindeer had ever eaten cranberries, and most wouldn’t recognize a cranberry if it bit them on a hoof.

Vixen was impatient. “So, now what? It’s too cold to go swimming and there’s ice on top!”

“I’ll show you what to do.” And he broke the ice with his antlers and plunged his head into the freezing water, emerging with cranberries stuck on the tips of his antlers. “These,” he said, sounding as if he was an ancient Greek orator, “these are cranberries, and you can eat them right off my antlers. They have lots of vitamin C which cures scurvy. And then we can take turns spearing cranberries for each other. We’ll all get healthy together!”

Comet was impressed. “Rudy, that’s a wonderful idea. Cooperation cures us…and I think those red cranberries on your antlers are cute.”

Rudolf was happy: the reindeer were helping one another. He didn’t care that the cranberries stained the tips of his antlers and even left some in place as a badge of honor.

It was only later that Chaz, the proprietor of “This & That” in North Pole, New York, 12946, wired the tips of Rudolf’s antlers so that the cranberries would flash at night. But that’s another story.

Moral: Using your head to help others may have results that are not immediately evident.          


Kenneth M. Kapp lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night in his man-cave. He enjoys chamber music and mysteries. His stories have appeared in more than ninety publications worldwide. Please visit www.kmkbooks.com.

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