Poem: Boiling Sap

By: Steven Jakobi

Deep snow stills the woods,
ice sparkles in the morning sun,
but the longer days are brighter
and the wind is a bit kinder.

The February sky is filled with
the nasal chords of geese,
the sonorous squawk of crows,
and trills of blackbirds in the fields.

Time to drill the holes,
tap the spiles, set the buckets,
and listen to the drip-drip sounds
of sap from maples awakening.

The cart, laden with pails,
overturns in the rutted lane −
nothing to do but haul the load
by hand to the roaring fire

Split wood, boil all day and
deep into the night
with the promise of sweet nectar
on buckwheat cakes
in summers to come.

Categories: Poetry

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