• Poetry

    Thank You, Robert Service

    by On mornings like this, when my commute is marked by temperatures under -20 C (-4 F for those using the imperial system), and a wind chill, and it’s at least a handful of degrees warmer than when I got up, I somehow always find myself reciting an old Robert Service poem, “The Cremation of Sam McGee”. Specifically, the third stanza. On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail. Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see; It wasn’t much fun, but the only one…