Who stumbles up the snowy mountain, drunk?
Who starts in afternoon?
Who leaves his flashlight on the bedroom trunk
While seeking nature's boon?
And sweating on a cliff of hardened ice
Accepting death by chill;
Who praises deadly peaks and chills that slice,
When storms deplete his will?
In darkness we're conceived—in dark, I slouched.
And blind I reached the room
Upon a peak of blizzard, shelter-couched—
Inside a wooden womb.
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