Wind is blowing the leaves around,
air that smells like sleep.
Yet this is when the true Canuck awakens:
When we hear that familiar tune on the tube,
Dah-dat dah-dahh dahh daaaahhhh!
Tingles course the spine like rivulets
of ice racing across a pond on a cold night.
What sight could be more joyous than the white
gleam of a fresh, unscarred sheet?
So what if the powers that be determine the big
boys won't come out to play this year,
the rest of us—true lovers of the game—
will skate on 3 a.m. ice, skate until we puke,
alternate swigs of beer and coffee for breakfast
bitch about whining millionaires, then drive
the kids to practice. Because if you let winter
clamp down on your heart, you slowly wither
among four walls, in front of a TV reality.