BIBLIOPHILE IN WINTER

The snow flees frantically from street to street
And shrouds the fortress of the Eaton Centre.
Each lighted doorway beckons him to enter,
But there's no time to waste. Beneath his feet

Slush oozes, while the wind claws at his face.
People run huddled past, then disappear,
And even the streetcar that is rumbling near
Will afterwards be swallowed in blank space.

He's in a hurry to get home, get warm,
Open that package underneath his arm
He clutches tightly like a secret treasure.

As the wind drives the snow into the nooks,
Already he anticipates the pleasure
Of taking out his newly purchased books.

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