A less pretty view of winter, from on the streets (Milton Acorn was from Prince Edward Island):

Canadian Winter, 1960-61
By Milton Acorn

Up Spadina, feet like the slow end
of a mutt sniffing from trashcan to pole,
(smutty, scruff, sour-fat on a thin dole,
pausing whole minutes to lick his behind)
regularly — rain, tea-weak sun, or blinding
snow-glutted poundage of a cold gale —
grey, jawdroppy with ragged lips, the pale
men past forty peg to the breadline.

They’ve washed in the dirty water of boredom
and in thinly conscious ways are still here;
but predictable in fluctuation
as spasms of malarial fever
or winged ant exodi. My bizarre sir
stop a minute! think of the word “human.”