Stepping out, on my walk, because of the cold,

my spirits low, I think of a young foreigner

who, always ailing, took himself in hand

and lived by rule, an object of amusement.

He met the world with goodwill, and if

his heart never starved on memory’s sucked orange,

in body and mind aren’t I his debtor?

And don’t I recall that, for him, at once

to forget the cold, feel his spirits rise,

of a raw morning, it was enough to see

that blue medusa when he lit the stove?

 

updated by @americymru: 11/28/17 04:29:32PM