A most peculiar compass round
This morning in the snow I found,
Ordain’d as such the night before
By winds that shook the cottage door.
A maple leaf with stem engrain’d
Enough to anchor it, sustain’d
A boreal bombardment here
And blindly sketch’d a perfect sphere.
I trust the shadow reaching forth
(Invested in the truest North)
Is well aware, if not content:
Perfection was an accident.
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