The wiping of boots -- haven't remarked on the host's face yet, even, mine burrowed beneath the scarf and having the eyeglasses fog in the cool of the mud room
I didn't shave, face cold-frozen, and I'm blunt as the snow white of nature
I'm dangerous, as all beautiful humanity is, and I'm here and now, inside, right from the Schwarzwald of the subconscious
Yet kind people discount all the risks and give out fresh cake
To receive this visit as though one brings rice to the village or to the wedding -- another set of hands providing oolong in a mug, why do these people love me?