I call my old dog, Rufus,
And climb the mountain,
And go down into a little cove,
To visit my friend and neighbor, Mother Snow.
She's been living in the cove
Since her oldest child
And now he's sixty-four.
We sit in her kitchen and ponder her future.
So to her can come no harm,
We are as careful as a captain guiding his ship
Through a mediterranean storm.
There's seventy-five dollars
In the blue pitcher above the stove.
It's all that's left of working and living
In the house in the cove.
With gnarled hands she pours tea...