3 Winter Poems: Embracing the Quiet Season

When gathering this small collection of winter poems, I felt a tinge of irony, since historically, winter is my least favorite season. Growing up in Vermont, my relationship to winter was anything but poetic, although I’ve come to appreciate it now that I live elsewhere—especially on a solo trip to Canada in January 2026.

In her best-selling book Wintering, Katherine May writes, “There is a change in the air. Early morning, when I open the back door, it billows into the kitchen, crisp, cold, and fresh as mint. It makes white clouds of my breath. Winter has decorated ordinary life.”

A winter stream with bare trees and snowy banks on either side. — *Rushing stream after fresh snow – Grafton, Vermont*

Table of Contents:

Seasons of Winter

Vermont winters are known for being long, dark, cold and unforgiving (although the implications of global warming have already begun to challenge this precedent).

Vermont has six seasons: true winter, mud season, spring, summer, autumn, and stick season. Unlike traditional seasons, which are marked by astronomical events, stick season and mud season are transition times that bookend true winter. True winter begins on the December solstice and lasts until the vernal equinox in March.

As autumn shifts toward stick season, the story of winter begins to unfold, bringing both excitement and dread. For some, the arrival of hunting season inspires a sense of hope, and anticipation, igniting an internal flame for the first time that year.

For many others, their houses become crowded as the heavy ghosts of seasonal depression return home to stay through spring.

Stick season occupies the liminal space after the last autumn leaves drop and the first lingering snowfall. During this winter prologue, the trees bare all–naked under pastel hued skies. The mountains dress in their winter coats of mottled gray and brown, with stands of evergreen conifers periodically interrupting the landscape. The air is still and quiet, but cuts like a sharp knife. It was during stick season that we said good-bye to our beloved horses after a family tragedy.

A barred owl in a thicket with snow on the ground. — *Barred owl – Dummerston, Vermont*

Barren Trees – A Winter Poem

It was a crisp winter evening

And the sun was slipping below the horizon,

Painting streaks of rose and tangerine across the sky

I passed a barren landscape of beech trees.

They stood tall in puddles of shiny brown leaves, stiff and slightly curled,

Their cool, elephant gray bark asking for the warm touch of my bare palm.

It made me miss home.

There’s a frightening silence one can experience while standing

Amongst the naked trees in the cold stillness of winter.

You can smell the cold–

Sense the frost forming inside your nostrils–

Feel the sharp bite of winter’s breath on pale cheeks.

She is raw and unforgiving.

The wind blows softly,

Pierces its way through my coat to my aching bones.

I hear the gentle rattling

Of stiff and stubborn brown leaves

That fought never to fall.

It is in these silent, still moments of ego slumber,

That I can truly be alone with myself.

Where my humble existence is distilled down

To the primal connection of my warm, mammal body

Against cold, solid earth.

A field and a large oak tree covered in snow. — *A rare, snow covered vista – Asheville, North Carolina*

True Winter

During my childhood, I experienced winter as a sickness. A condition from which to escape. Like many New Englanders–my grandparents included, I longed to flee to the lush green of Florida, where the gentle, humid air welcomed stiff joints and parched skin.

Now, after decades in the Carolinas, where winters are merely a suggestion, I have a new appreciation for the beauty of this time. I am filled with nostalgia for the winters of my childhood that I could not wait to leave behind.

We are not without true winter in these parts, but even when she comes with vigor, her brevity makes the visit more tolerable—so does a steaming cup of Peppermint Hot Chocolate.

After it Snows – A Winter Poem

After it snows

The trees stand at attention.

Bare and tall, gray, and cold,

Their bark warming in the late afternoon sun.

The forest floor is dappled

Like the coat of an appaloosa,

With patches of dried grass

And crystalline snow crust

Still clinging to the shadows.

Grey squirrels taunt my dog,

As they bound from tree to tree.

Their fluffy tails

Rippling,

Twitching,

And begging to be chased.

The air is still and quiet.

The scent of minerals rises from the

Wet earth below our feet.

The trail is mostly dry,

Save for the few glistening puddles

Whose reflections nearly blind me.

Carefully, we trot over them,

Not wanting to interrupt their serenity.

The local deer family stands on a hill crest,

Partly hidden by the skeletons

Of last summer’s eye-height weeds.

Their thick coats are plush and drab,

Black noses shining, ears listening,

Evaluating our intentions as we pass.

The river rushes along its bed of stones,

Caressing the banks that gently hold it,

As it rises with the snow melt,

Cold and hurrying.

The geese are quiet today,

But I see their bright white underbellies

Lit by the winter sun like bloomers

As they bob along the shoreline.

In the meadow, the dried grasses glow with golden halos.

A phoebe clings to one stalk,

Backlit, and peaceful

Patiently waiting…

Her wings flutter as she dives

To pluck a lethargic insect from the ground.

We walk by a tree

With a hollow scoop near its base,

The bowl filled with hardened snow,

An icy nest, cold and unwelcoming to life,

But attractive all the same.

Somehow, I’ve missed winter

Without even realizing it.

It’s been years since she’s come to greet me.

And today, I welcome her and all her beauty

Chilling and fleeting as she may be.

A winter landscape with a mountain view. — *The view from my childhood home – Townshend, Vermont*

A New Appreciation for Winter

I now long for the quiet solace of winter, to savor the slower pace of life while resetting my energy in anticipation of spring. Like the trees dropping their leaves after the autumn finale, I release my binds and attune to the fading daylight.

These days, I welcome the peace of winter and time alone for meaningful reflection. I revisit beloved winter poems such as Lines for Winter by Mark Strand and Starlings in Winter by Mary Oliver. I find comfort in their familiar words, occasionally birthing something of my own. Often, during periods of stillness and relative inactivity, I find my creativity begins to blossom even while the earth around me sleeps.