Roses in the Fall

Don’t they know
that ice is on the way?
A distinct chill has hung
in the air like an azure
curtain all week long,
now they have bloomed,
petals that hopefully have
the fortitude to outlast blasts
of frigid air, responding
to the world with an
admirable tenacity.

By JD DeHart


JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His poems have appeared in Gargouille and The Other Herald, among other publications. DeHart blogs at jddehartpoetry.blogspot.com.

The Sound of Snow

snow crystals cover pine needlesThere once was the sound of snow. I first heard it at my aunt and uncle’s cabin in the Big Bear mountains, a place our family gathered for winter holidays. The old shake-wood cabin was painted forest green and snuggled against the hill side. A series of stair-steps lead to the front door. There was a wood stove with its smoky heat, a small living-room-kitchen, and the icy-cold outdoor bath tub. Sometimes, rain fell all day, but by next morning, a white powder covered the trees, the forest floor, and the cabin roof. Long, pointy-tipped ice-cycles hung from the eves.

I knew the snow would come. I heard it in the pitter of rain on the tin roof, how the sound would quiet to a whisper, then silence. The snow absorbed sounds. It turned down the volume of the world outside; it lowered the volume of the thoughts in my head to heartbeat and breath.

Years later, while backpacking in the Trinity Alps, I heard the sound of snow. It softened the sound of the rushing waters at Deer Creek into a gentle, bubbling babble. Instead of the icy crunch under foot, there was a slippery-slosh as my boots sank into wet snow. Blacktailed deer, and even Black Bear, remained active in the winter’s snow, but their sounds were smaller. The snow covered the branches and the leaves of the forest floor. No longer was there the snap of a branch or the rustle of leaves as the animals walked on their forage for food in the snow-globe-world of white.

Living off-grid in the Tahoe National Forest, large snow flakes fell throughout the night. In the morning, our trucks disappeared, hidden under heaps of snow. The snow circled our cabin, tucked it in tightly, like a child swaddled in blankets. My husband and I were cocooned inside where the wood stove hissed and popped, while the tea kettle whistled. Outside, the snow stacked higher.
snowy ranch see from homw window

When we lived in the Modoc Mountains, the snow didn’t fall from the sky; instead, it blew with a horizontal wind from the north or the south. Snow covered windows in delicate crystals. It threw piles of whiteness in front of the doors. The sound of snow was wailing wind, and when the wind calmed and the snow settled, there was the swoosh of the snow shovel, the thunderous crash of snow as it slid off the roof, and the sputter of the tractor as my husband plowed to uncover our long, gravel driveway.

But, the snow stopped. From the north in Modoc to Big Bear in the south, the snow fell in inches instead of feet, and the pitter patter of warm rain melted the tiny layer of snow to a thin slush. Hope came as a new winter storm was promised, but there was only timid rain. There was no snow pack to seep slowly into the earth to feed the forest. No snowpack to release its waters down into the dry, thirsty valleys in the hot summer months. Millions of trees died, and reservoirs were cracked-dry earth. Each winter night, I listened for snow, waited for the silence that did not come.

That was before the world turned upside down, and the river appeared in the sky. There was a thunderous noise as the rains poured down upon the earth. The water filled the thirsty lakes and stream beds. The water overflowed the river banks, spread mud and debris across the roads, punched huge holes into the asphalt. At home, in the Sierra Foothills, the water crept through the floors, filled the laundry room inches deep. The garden ditches were raging creeks. The news said, “Only travel in an emergency.” We were trapped inside, as trees fell in the wind, and the electricity stopped. A new quiet came. The hum of the refrigerator ceased, the ceiling fan stopped it’s whirl. Outside, the storm continued, but inside, the quiet was profound.early morning light on snowy ranch

And this morning, after five years of waiting, I woke to the silence of snow. From my window, I watched it fall softly from the grey sky. Snow sprinkled the tree tops, covered my truck, turned the cabin roof white. I opened the front door, inhaled deeply, let the moist air fill my lungs.


Kandi MaxwellKandi Maxwell lives and writes in the Sierra foothills of Northern California. She walks through forests, soaks and splashes in rivers, lakes and hot springs, and bends frequently in downward dog. She is a retired high school English teacher. Her work has been published in Fair Haven Literary Review, KYSO Flash, The Raven’s Perch, One in Four, Foliate Oak, and others. Her work has been nominated for The Best American Essay series.

Photos by the author.

A Rehearsal of Wind

A December sky
left ducks to shiver
and take refuge
in the swamp grass
of September.
I walked backwards
on my journey
around the lake today,
feeling my sojourn
was one of rewind.

No amount of huddling
could bring summer back.
As a child of warmth,
I could not return to August sun.
It had faded into hiding,
where worms measure daylight
by the segment.

By Harding Stedler

ducks sheltering in grass on a winter pond


After graduating valedictorian of his high school graduating class, Harding Stedler went on to earn his B.S. in Ed., M.S in English Education, and his Ph.D. in English Education as well. He taught writing courses under the umbrella of the English Department in universities where he taught. In 1995, he retired from Shawnee State University in Portsmouth, Ohio, with 34 years of service. He now makes his home in Maumelle, Arkansas, and is an active member of the Poets’ Roundtable of Arkansas as well as the River Market Poets in Little Rock.

Photo by Ben Thomasian

Snowstorm Stella

staring out the window
in the noontide of
a Winter snowstorm,
I watch the trees
whip back and forth,
losing a fight
against the wind

By Rebeca Perez

woman watching snow at window


Rebeca Perez author photoRebeca is a mother, wife, and poet. She loves being out in nature. In love with all things art-related, obsessed with birds and flowers. She loves to collaborate with other creatives and poets.

Visit her website blendmylove.com

Photo by Oleksandra Borsuk

Suburban Journal: The Remnant

neighborhood road in snowy winterFebruary had been a strange month for weather. It was like the weather couldn’t make up its mind on whether it was going to be warm or cold, changing every few days like hypomania, never going the full extreme into full-blown mania. Yesterday it had been 70 degrees, a taste of what late spring would bring, but today the temperature dropped, and the day was cold in the 40s, the north wind blowing with a bitter chill that told its true nature.

My parents and I had just finished watching Circus Soleil, and walking out of the big top, the wind blew across our faces like a straight razor. Standing for a moment in the parking lot, where 500 yards away stood an immense mega church, I turned my face straight north and let the wind hit my brow, rubbing across as it were barber ready to give me a shave. The wind had come hundreds of miles down the long plains, hurtling down Kansas and Oklahoma that unfurled in North Texas, a winter remnant reminding that spring was not here yet.

Overhead, the night was clear, stars shining eons away as we walked in the cold toward our car. A few hundred yards away, I could see some trees and the incline of a hill, and I thought about what this area must have looked like a hundred years ago. It was probably prairie, a small farming community, all of that gone now, progress moving forward with urbanization, remorseless in its precision and expansiveness. All that remained native was the wind, the North Wind from the plains.

It had blown cold and hard each winter, each gust crossing the years as change came in the way of a booming economy. The land would change, people would die, but the wind would be the witness to it all, for now until the end of time. Getting into our car, the wind lingering on my hoodie’s shoulders, I know it would be with me until I passed. With that, Nature ran its course in one way or another, even with so much change. And that thought gave me comfort. We drove on home through the night, and the wind kept his company all the way home and into Morpheus’ sleep.


This is an article in my Subdivision Journal series. I am trying to use mindfulness to observe nature in my neighborhood. Other articles in the series:
The Tree Blossoms
The Dead Bird
A Budding Tree
An Encounter With a Falcon
The Carrying of Sounds
The View from My Window


Author PhotoCarl Wade Thompson is a poet, essayist, and the graduate writing tutor at Texas Wesleyan University. He has published poetry and memoir essays in The Mayo Review, The Concho River Review, One in Four, Anak Sastra, The Galway Review, The Blue Collar Review, Piker Press, The Eunoia Review, Blue Minaret, Nebo Literary Magazine, Alphelion Literary Webzine, and Labor: Studies in Working-Class History of the Americas. He lives on the outskirts of Fort Worth, Texas. His poems explore the link between the urban and the rural.

Photo by Pavel Cheiko