Winter in Quebec

Every late October, I wave to my neighbour
one last time that year. The day the first snow
stays on the ground, we know we won't see each other
before the thaw in the spring. The ground, the fence,
and yard furniture all disappear without a trace,
back doors close, curtains are drawn, the alley hibernates.
At night, the street-light beams spirals of new flakes
in evidence of space and lives negated by white.

Buried in thick wool and silence, faces
and words disappear. We dream of the sun.
Walking home in my bastion of scarves
which protects me from intruding ice, I steal
a sidelong glance at my neighbour's window:
he isn't there but somehow
                       the thought of someone disperses the snow.