Smoke Stack In January Poem by Jack Worthington

I opened the door, bracing against the cold
My hat and gloves and coat shelterd me from an icy arctic wind
I reached to close the door behind and cast the salt around to find a path to which my feet my bind
As I carefully tread the steps, I gazed up to a sight that was something to behold.

My eyes traced the stack, the dawn behind it, grey and metal, far above the little bungalows
Blowing steam rings in the air, that curled up with delight and danced pirouettes through the sky
Though my face grew numb, my eyes stood still, gazing at the dance from far below
Springtime was so far away, and with it shoots of life, but for the steam this is summer, the height of its July.