A wintry wind whispers among bare branches In upland fields, a gale howls through frozen hawthorn A mad east wind storms and screams in frenzied fury over abandoned graves and broken crosses Sleet sweeps across Alpine pastures In the fold the sheep bleat pitifully Icy rain incessantly rattles a broken window Snow falls lightly on a transformed landscape Moonlight is filtered through a sea mist throwing dappled light on dark waters Waves dribble up cold, wet sand Sea ice roars

In the barn the cattle’s breath floats, a warm mist touched by the smell of dung and straw. In the fold, the sheep huddle, their rhythmic bleating, softly reassuring. In the farm kitchen a red glow throws shadowy flames flickering across the walls. Wet boots dry out on the hearth. The sound of snow, softly reassuring. From the warm parlour the notes of a piano sound out over the white wilderness; old, familiar tunes, softly reassuring. BIO Sarah Das Gupta is a poet from Cambr

Decades after her death, Dorothy gets a headstone. Born during a hurricane, she was writer, poet, satirist. Dorothy (writer, poet, satirist) was born during a hurricane. Decades after her death, she gets a headstone at Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, Her epitaph: Leave for her a red young rose. In the Bronx, at Woodlawn Cemetery, leave for her a red young rose, her epitaph. A hurricane threatened while gin was sipped from flasks; as Parker’s very pretty dust finally came to r

Someone’s set my soul loose; I can’t get her back. She’s out there, dancing wildly, wonderfully released. Prior craziness now seems justified—those midnight escapades to the underworld, hoping (like Persephone) to be rid of earthly chores; the foolhardy fearlessness that bared its teeth at friend and foe alike: all symptoms of an overheated heart, surging upward like a volcano, spitting out sparks and toxic fumes from a core of molten energy, the creative source within. It’s