I took up my notebook today and started scribbling some notes for a poem. After a few lines, I was about to give up, thinking ‘nothing is going to come from this.’ But I kept going – a lot of the time I don’t – and here’s what became of those notes.
p.s. If you know where to find some winter, let me know.
p.p.s. I’ve told perfectionism to go fuck itself in 2026.
It's January 8th, 2026
and there haven't been icicles to chew on,
my nostril hairs haven't frozen,
winter hasn't satisfied
my feverish need for its complete presence.
The other day, snow was forecast.
Dad, like most Dads, muttered,
then, when the hefty flakes came,
was by the window, boyishly transfixed.
I told him the flakes are called hundslappadrífa
- dog-paw flakes in Icelandic, but he didn't hear,
phone against his ear, instructing mum which gear
to drive in like she hadn't been on the road for forty years.
The snow didn’t fall for long, there wasn’t much,
but I shoulder regret for not raising a dragon in the garden.
It could have sat in Saga's palm a moment before puddling.
***
I was in Iceland in mid-December, constantly eying Esja.
But its snow cover was little more than a powdering of sugar.
Some days, I walked with my coat open down Laugavegur,
wondering if my overheating was perimenopause,
or that Reykjavik was simply not as cold as it used to be.
I ruminate on leaving my snow boots next to a bin,
the tragic implication. My trip barely required soles with grip.
***
I was supposed to get the train today,
I was supposed to search for winter,
but my fatigue is all mountain.
Unable to sleep, I spent last night
mulling which coat to take,
and if I was already too late.
I stay at home, read an essay from 1903
where a white man writes about trailing an Indian
in the Canadian woods, hankering, like me,
for the snarling spirit of the North at his heels.
In my bed, I squirm and ache for winter's wolfish presence.
For the thrill of nostril hair hardened by a cold that's true
and the thick, blunt chew of an icicle.
A Wyrd Of Her Own 