This one from Billy Collins from his book: Nine Horses, available in paperpack at your favorite store and full of wonderful Billy Collins poems.
It's only a cold, cloud-hooded weekday
in the middle of winter,
but I am sitting up in my body
like a man riding an elephant
draped with a carpet of red and gold,
his turban askew,
singing a song about the return of the cranes.
And I am inside my own head
like a tiny homunculus,
a creature so excited over his naked existence
that he scurries all day
from one eye socket to the other
just to see what scenes are unfolding before me,
what streets, what pastures.
And to think that just hours ago
I was as sour as Samuel Johnson
with a few bad sherries in him,
quarreling in a corner of the Rat and Parrot,
full of scorn for the impertinence of men,
the inconstancy of women.
And to think further than I have no idea
what might have uplifted me,
unless it was when I first opened
the front door to look at the sky
so extensive and burdened with snow,
or was it this morning
when I walked along the reservoir?
Was it when the dog
scared up some ducks off the water
and I stopped to watch them flapping low
over the frozen surface,
and I counted them in flight,
all seven -- the leader and the six hurrying behind.