The Bell Ringer

He stands beside the winter’s crowded street,
A bell in hand, its hopeful rhythm bold;
With every ring, warm wishes slowly beat—
He braves the bitter cold.

His breath becomes a cloud the winds unseat,
Yet still he smiles at strangers, young and old;
Compassion keeps his weary stance complete
Though frost nips through his coat’s thin fold.

The night grows sharp; the drifting snow takes hold,
But kindness moves through every passing feet—
A quiet gift no icy gust can scold.
He rings until the final light retreats—
That bell in hand, its hopeful rhythm bold.