The world was warm when I was young. This memory survives

Experience. For though the world feels colder now, my head

Preserves the proof that warmth exists. Like lowly candles lit

Throughout the bedrooms of my mind, his small, abundant acts

Of grace cast constant light and heat that to this day embalm

My frail belief that warmth endures, that hope repays, that cold’s

A passing thing, and cruelty’s not the fate of every man.

For some, like him, don’t rage against the winter’s creep, but fan

Love’s ancient embers faithfully until a flame enfolds

Within its warmth whoever’s near. His flame, though small and calm,

Burns like a candle — giving up itself so no one lacks

For heat. This flame could pass to me, unless I should forget

That time I stole some money and the gentle words he said:

“The world is full of takers, son. It needs a man who gives.”