The cottage I rent is perched, hanging
Clifted over the edge
Of the water
Which is in its winter state;
Vast sheets and stratifications of ice
Ever changing,
Stretching and moving,
Responding to the wandering winds
The constant cold
And the rare faint warmth of the sun.
I hear its voice.
And on this winter day
As I seek solace,
Burrowed and buried deep in my covers,
I am on the living end of its sounds,
A stem of a living tuning fork
Seated in the orchestra, hearing all;
Its groaning voice calls
As it rumbles basso like elephants talking,
As it keens and screeches like a ghost drowned,
As it peens on this frozen anvil,
A mournful moan like tympani being tuned.
There are clatters and clicks like some phantom dolphin
Swimming amidst roars and whispers and wails.
It speaks a language
From some ever-ancient time,
Messages and signals sent
That I might someday fathom.
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