Brisk

With back to the wind warm thoughts
Of thanks within me breathe.
Collar up and cap down low, I ought
To mind the cold that seized
The world herebouts. But no, and not
A thought, my face is in the lee.
And smoke, all mine, whips ‘way and fraught
With fall, cold fingers, dancing free
About my pipe, find warmth. Caught
By life itself.
Good day, O God, to thee.

by Evan Wilson