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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