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