December 12, 1956, 9:00 a.m.

It began on a cold, dreary morning
In Western Kentucky
In the gun-metal grey of December,
As cold and true as a rifled barrel.
My father was driving home from Cincinnati
Down through the green mountains
Out past the Winter-brown pastures.
My mother took rest from her groaning,
And if you were to take a walk
Down the hard-concrete sidewalk
Along Seventeenth Street,
Under the canopy of the leafless oaks
You could take your brown shoe
And kick the frost collected on the walk,
But as for me, I was scarlet,
Screaming my protests
To the first appearance of the December sun.