Note from the Editors
Amal says: It snowed in Glasgow yesterday, and stuck for the first time in a while, granting me a whole morning's worth of fairy tale to savour and see home through. There was no trace of it left today. I am used to snow being a sign of stasis, of permanence, a bargain struck between the season and myself: everything will be blanketed to sleep, and everything will wake refreshed. The absence of snow in winter pains me — a cold that will not sit still.
Caitlyn says: I think it has been a strange winter in many places, with unpredictable storms and uneasy thaws. Here in Ottawa, it snows, melts, then freezes over in a seemingly unending cycle. Slick, dangerous surfaces lurk beneath places that look safe to step. We fall, we get up, we know better for next time.
But there is a beauty in this silver winter, and as I look out from behind the curtain of icicles over my window and watch black birds chatting on the power lines, I can feel that spring will not be long in coming.
Amal says: This is an issue of blackbirds, husbands, and weariness; of wolves, warnings, and want. It is an issue in despairing love with a winter half-gone, where spring is as uncertain as the snow.
Caitlyn says: To me, this issue is that last breath of cold before the turning point. It is a moment to relish the beauty of the ice before it melts into the earth to nourish the coming of a new season. We both hope you will enjoy it.
Amal says: Thanks are due to the incredible Betsie Withey for this issue's beautiful art, to our fantastic contributors for their poems, and always, always to you, dear readers, without whom we would have no salt for our winter feasts.
Keep warm and hurry home.
