hers is the stone like a cnoc
mountain rills
are crawling crystal
down the
valley at night
toward my box
and my oaken floor
who carries what the box
cries like
windfall
that blows
through
the shadow of
my flukes
who is lost but
finds winter
heretofore
in the sharp
flank
of the still
cold north
while the sea rages by ice
my dear and
froth that freezes
on breaming
waves
and salt in a
felt slipper
who climbs the rock face
for your health
and welfare
in the oaken
valley
of the old
flipper
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