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Winter's the word's still my kind of weather.

where chimneys spray fumes of gingerbread and amethyst smoke down the block.

It snowed-in the cluster of row homes, as the nutmeg wafted through oversized wreaths

strung lights that kept the snow mounds warm.

We were sipping on iced peppermint mochas by the screen door,

when your Yellow Lab tipped over the chameleon-etched lampshade.

The yuletide mockery hibernates to hide from the White Witch of Narnia,

until she shrivels into a powdered defeat — December runs on Christmas and false hope —

you've got to admit that to the tears that streak your stocking,

the one with your name scrawled in glitter;

and well, when you're waking up to presents you never asked for,

surrounded by family members who don’t want to be there

I have no choice but to miss the way winter used to leave me feeling

back when it reminded me of you.

Even when the snow's considered a curse,

and I no longer visit your cramped house for cranberry sauce

or brunch with your sisters and their girlfriends,

it's still my kind of weather.


Nicole Verbitsky is a 20 year-old writer from Northeast PA. A writer of bittersweet poems and the seldom short story, she also serves as a poetry editor for The Lunar Journal. At this time, her work appears in Neverland Lit and upcoming in voidspace zine. Her hobbies include overanalyzing media and reading with music in the background.

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