Quebec Glâce

I am from icy branches

Boughs of glasswork that

Play with the light

Cars hidden under the snow

Bikes frozen in time

The moon glares down, and

We gingerly amble

Up the slippery steps

Boots by the door

Coats on the couch

Gloves galore

And puddles on the floor

Mon pays, c’est l’hiver.

 

Done