I think of my father
‘s breath trailing from his lips
backlit by the cool November sun

His cheeks are ruddy
and his eyes teared
by the hard northern wind

His neat row of medals
is pinned to the twill
of the tough black winter coat
its collar up against his
clean shaven jowels

He still had some Brasso
that he had used to burnish
those medals that he would
not speak of

His lips purse against the cold