Our skin matches yours now, white on white. We’ll sing gentle songs until the sun’s rays reveal Bellwoods Park at her finest moment, a soon-to-be slippery sludge, until it’s all reborn again. words by Nada Alic

Dearest Winter, We may have started this year on the wrong foot, doomed before it began, much like the years before. But Bellwoods is near-covered in this stuff. This deceiving, fragile stuff. The wind bites off tips of ears and

Whatever the reason for this blinding whiteness, we’ll play anyway. We’ll cover the better parts of our fingers and find the courage to pluck and strum. We’ll watch the air leave our lungs in smokey bundles, dissolving and retreating into