Flying Island

Winter Dream by Mary Sexson The winter storm effect brings crowds to the stores, lines to stand in, the most coveted items sold out, and we wait, see if our patience holds. Late tonight I want to wake up and make note of the snow, count the flakes and guess their accumulations, I want to gaze out the upstairs window and look down on the literal abundance of it, enough to hold us all in, keep us to our chairs and couches, books opened, movies on, popcorn popped, the interior defined by our presence, our gaze to the fire, we will use words like cozy and snug, we will chuckle softly as we get another blanket from the basket. A Rabbit in Winter by Mary Sexson The rabbit’s tracks go over the top of the snow, all the way across the yard to the fence, where you can see he got out. Caught in this urban sprawl he has learned to deal with barriers. I used to see him every morning, alert in my front yard, assessing the day, wind riffling his fur, he did not...

Winter Noise by Lylanne Musselman Listen to the echoes in the heart of winter: snow shovels scrape concrete, tires roll over brittle ice, arthritic tree branches pop and crack as they move in the whistling breeze. Canada geese trumpet their flight across the crisp bright sky, and like parachutists smaller feathered friends drop in at full feeders, chirp delight while seeds shuffle onto frozen ground. One unexpected day, after months of muffled noise suffered under too much snowfall, you will hear the constant dripping of shiny icicles — winter’s suicidal melt, drumming in spring sounds. Bio: Lylanne Musselman is a native Hoosier with many family, friendship, and poetry ties that keep her returning often. An award-winning artist and poet, she has been published in many literary journals and anthologies. She’s authored three chapbooks, and co-authored Company of Women: New and Selected Poems (Chatter House Press, 2013) with Jayne Marek and Mary Sexson. Alt...

Alphabetics of the Comforters by Jayne Marek   Folded, bedclothes rise in crests toward the storms. One side of night pressed down, invisible, the other Inescapable, a cradle of waiting. Hours of minuscule cat footsteps cross the floor To listen at black walls. Hard to believe anyone might have hidden Something precious under the pillow Where it could easily wrap the mind’s eye In scarves that never rest, that Unfold their hunger, Pointing toward the wind’s escape, Shaping the hieroglyphic Of a name in a forgotten alphabet One is required to know. Cold Promise by Jayne Marek   So rare to have the windows open in autumn     On a day when the dry leaves click together         Stirred by a robin’s foot.   Still here, bird? You’ll be sorry if you linger too long     Among patches of thinning grass. Beetle buzz, bark scents waft in,     On damp weedy air.   It’s m...