A group of people have been sharing their stories about the frigid season at a local theatre cafe in the hopes of getting published in a new winter book.
Jason Norman is editor of the "40 Below Project," a collection of winter stories, and has been looking for inspired narratives.
"If I could collect an anthology and put it together like a package think it would be a cool thing for the city," said Norman. "It's something we can't escape any ways [winter] so it would be good to have good memories of winter."
The novel is supposed to hit shelves around this time next year.
Here is a sneak peak at some of the poems featured in the project:
Evening by Danielle Metcalfe-Chenail
I slipped into the ice fog
With denser air
My hand burning from the doorknob
The lights kept me lonely
As I walked through snow
Punishing my lungs
With ice-tipped air
The ravens just stared
Their backs heavy with frost.
I Hear Winter by Rayane Doucet
There is a sound winter carries on the wind.
And it is deafening in the silence
of this frozen season.
There is a sound to frost as it brushes my fingers.
There is a sound to soil as it burrows
in and succumbs to the snow that falls from above.
There is a sound to sun as it touches your skin.
Crisp, alert; Ready for re-birth.
I hear winter hunch her shoulders
and curl into night.
I listen to trees as they groan
under the weight of the snow,
and sigh into the depth of winter.
I can hear Willows talk while
turning from young green teenager
to Grandfather in his rocking chair.
Leafless branches shaking gnarled fingers into the cold.
I hear human sounds.
Gortex jackets rubbing on gortex ski pants.
Snowball battle cries.
Crunching boots on frigid ground.
Winter hearts beating loudly;
Taking cues from the converted Willows,
and two stepping with Old Man Winter.
I hear the ski hill roaring out his glory
in tune with snowboarders on his back.
I hear children building snow forts; mini architects directing sky scrappers.
I hear parent`s fingers squeaking on hot chocolate cups.
There is a sound as icicles form around the fog of our breath
There is a sound to air, tightening our skin
There is a sound to winter as it inhales.