Choruses of peepers sing an endless
ringing chirp from a half frozen swamp
beyond the sugarbush. I harvest
the last run before the sap goes sour.
For six weeks I’m a divining rod
of fickle weather, both groundhog
and shadow, the lifeblood of maples
circulating within me. Now I’m bone-sore
from a long season, pushing myself
in deep zombied exhaustion.
Thousands of gallons were hauled from
trees to sugarhouse, but only to drive
most of it off in frenzied boils, churning
with foam and large cauliflowered
bubbles conjuring a Zen-like haze
where less becomes so much more.
Sweet steam is my heaven-bound incense,
the shack sauna-like with moisture
and warmth, welcoming friends
out of freezing winds and early dark.
We chat away hours, the heart’s
endearing trivialities opening without
warning since boiling is made
of time and listening. Clear liquid
slowly thickens to golden, an alchemy
of concentrated sunshine
ripening the sugarmaker into spring.
