The poem begins with a simple, odd thought: after snowfall, the whole neighborhood might sit under one roof. From there it moves the way attention does when you stare out a window. Phone poles, flagpoles, chimneys, a hill, smoke-like grass, clouds, a spiderweb, open garage doors, a vine, twigs against the sky. Nothing is explained, and the lines jump from one sight to the next, sometimes mid-thought.
That broken, patchy quality is the point. The speaker seems to be taking in the world piece by piece, letting seasons and memories blur together, with summer screens and autumn vines slipping in among the snow. A few lines turn darker, like "death when you don't want it," but they pass quickly and aren't pursued.
The mood is quiet, alert, and a little lonely. Judging by the imagery, the speaker is mostly watching rather than acting, and the ending, "the air / empty from the rain," leaves a feeling of stillness and space.