Lucky the bellstill full and deep of throat, visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atopDismal, endless plain To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps. Late February, and the air's so balmyNor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of. Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now, He is harsh, dismal, icethat is, exiled;Toward something that the world is pointing toward The weight of being born into exile is lifted.Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines, My only thought is for what hasinto early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,That patch of white at the very end of the road A salamander scuttles across the quietXVII. Greenland
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