Open hands of a man isolated on black background. Selective focus on palm. (natasaadzic/Getty Images)Open hands of a man isolated on black background. Selective focus on palm. (natasaadzic/Getty Images)
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.”