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This poem is sort of like a picture, or rather a scene. It tells us, in two stanzas, that, when there are icicles, and a dude carrying logs, and another guy trying to warm his hands, and frozen milk, and bad roads, and blood is cold… well, then an owl sings out and some woman stirs a pot. (Taking notes out there?) Also, when people are coughing, and the wind is blowing, and crab apples are hissing in a bowl of ale… then that same owl sings while a woman stirs a pot. Peachy—or crab apple-y.