Deep in the belly of the furnace kicking on is the sound of winter. The farmhouse’s breath becomes cold and dry, making her wear two layers of clothes, especially wool socks to skim across the wooden floors, raising enough static electricity to stand every hair on her head on end. She likes to feel the tiny bristles rub against her palms, thinking her cap of white hair will be back by spring, if she survives whatever else might kill her.  She can still amp up her heart rate until she hears her private sea shushing back & forth, like snow.


M.J. Iuppa’s fourth poetry collection is This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017). For the past 32 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog: for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.