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Rite of Spring

 So winter closed its fist
And got it stuck in the pump.
The plunger froze up a lump In its throat, ice founding itself Upon iron.
The handle Paralysed at an angle.
Then the twisting of wheat straw into ropes, lapping them tight Round stem and snout, then a light That sent the pump up in a flame It cooled, we lifted her latch, Her entrance was wet, and she came.

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