Winter measures moon to moon—round and white—or buttery yellow like the fat that pads our bones. Cold, Wolf, Snow, Crow: the names of the moons are markers for me, far more beautiful than the paper calendar on the kitchen wall with its stocky squares of blocky, black print. The moon, insistent through my bedroom window blinds, wakes me at 2, 3 a.m. a few nights a month after it crests the roofline. It is the passage of winter, a skyborne ship’s log. Winter is borne under my white duvet, atop my broken pillow, beside my sleeps-through-anything husband. Nights punctuated by northeast winds and my dog’s huffs and sighs and circles. I turn too and creak my box spring. Breathing together, bundled together, moonlight on bedspread—we bear winter.
Kathryn Ganfield is a nature writer and essayist. She’s always lived in river towns, where everything old is made new again. Born in Portland, Oregon, she grew up and lives in St. Paul, Minnesota. Her work has appeared in Up North Lit, Portage Magazine, Tiny Seed Journal and The Talking Stick. Find her on Twitter @KTGanfield.