Beyond the day, along some inner calendar Waits the tide, warm and sure, one with the pure sway Of wind, North, North, to wake the myriad stars, To garden the bare branch, to shape the drift On either side as the sled makes that voyage Silent and swift as hope between the trees, Under the frigid arc of sky. Our only shield against the cold, warm wool And mittens red, our flying scarves, Banners signaling victory, our shouts ring On the hour, outlining our flight from hilltop To that destination whose truth and treasure We will know where moves the white, wild wonder Of the snow.

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