Blizzard night here in Providence. Thought of opening lines of simple old poem, published 40 yrs ago in Where the Skies Are Not Cloudy All Day.
A LITTLE CART
It's dark out, the snow
lies endless miles around the house.
I hear words inside me like a little cart
as it rumbles away through fog.
They escape my hand. One time
I met a friend in the city,
and something heavy fell from the buildings --
we shake tight hands
and escape each other down the street.
Now the line runs on,
my hand moves, my head sleeps.
Before dawn it will begin to snow again,
people will climb out of bed
scattered all over the world;
here I can smell that day and the street
that ends in my thoughts,
dreaming of my friend with no empty hands.