THE
PILOT
LIGHT
So hard, so cold,
So silent, so bold,
January the third
The day.
So gray, so dim,
The frost on limb,
The trees in the wind
Creak and sway.
From stacks on roof
There is the proof
Where suspended
Smoke columns do freeze.
But deep inside,
Warm souls abide,
For graced-pilots
Lit daily on knees.
PILOT
LIGHT
So hard, so cold,
So silent, so bold,
January the third
The day.
So gray, so dim,
The frost on limb,
The trees in the wind
Creak and sway.
From stacks on roof
There is the proof
Where suspended
Smoke columns do freeze.
But deep inside,
Warm souls abide,
For graced-pilots
Lit daily on knees.
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