I’m still in New Jersey, avoiding the thirty-below weather in the Interior, but enjoying the blustery weather here. In the Interior, winter air is generally still and a deep silence sets in at the coldest temperatures. Here, the wind brings its own active cold. At night I hear it rushing through the branches of the trees outside the window. Walking in it yesterday, I pulled my hat down over my ears and remembered just how cold wind chill can be.
So write about what the wind brings–memories, observations, or background music. Let it blow something unexpected into the poem.
Mattie's Pillow 