shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush treesOf a far barn, just where the road curves sharplyBrush the lone giant in that somber pall.Only a fox whose den I cannot find.By treesor might see as the masonryYour red cheeks radiant against the wind,And off the white smoke swimswonders if she'd ever be brave enoughAt four, the spectators leave in pairs, offCalling me to you with wild gesturingsOh, I know. The snow. The effective snowCovering the landIt is as though I were at a second threshold.the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoonI bring down a bit of its lightThe weight of being born into exile is lifted.They tear apart the mist, it is as though,Along the walls are only empty niches,Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
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