He smiled a smile content and wistful, free
Of worry, free of dread, and free of pain;
I wondered, would he share his gift with me?
I sat next to him, in the torrent frail,
And asked him why he smiled, while getting wet.
He grinned and told me a fantastic tale,
About the time he lived in Calumet.
He used to work outdoors in the weather --
Of course, he used to shovel lots of snow:
Fluffy, white, but NOT light as a feather,
It had a tendency to drift and blow.
“Twas shov’ling snow that made me look so old!”
He said, and laughed, a bright and cheery sound.
“The problem wasn’t work, it was the cold!”
He giggled, and he spat on the wet ground.
“I’m only thirty-two,” he said at last:
“I guess the chilly weather caused some harm.”
A shadow crossed his face, but soon it passed.
“I don’t mind this here rain...because it’s warm!”
Mick McKellar
June 2018
It’s a matter of perspective, I guess.
Mick
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