I am writing a poem in mist
Deer eating the fallen apples—later it will snow.
As a child I talked to my hands
Blind and alone—later it would snow.
Later night was quiet
Like a dream of dreaming—
Boyhood was that way,
I could look down
See myself asleep at our piano.
When I say I love my life
I’m playing there, that dream instrument—snow at the window.