Dec 152014
We made new syrup in the crisp of Christmas. 
The long dark walk under sugary stars 
Through black maple woods stippled with buckets 
Hung on clotted faucets stabbed in every tree, 
Trudging noseward toward a warm sweet scent 
In crunchy rubber boots and wetted mittens 
Until the golden door under the tin shed roof 
Opened on suddenly summery snow, and we saw 
The great long room--one simmering pan 
Hot sweet and close as the world was cold: 
Icicles hanging off the wall were sugar,  
And the tipped tree sap was life and water. 
We stood in the heat's mouth and shoved logs in 
Fingertips red in the down-low glare, 
Moved loving paddles through the gold-brown skin, 
Nostrils fringed with the blood of maples, 
The blood of maples on eyelash and lip, 
There in the secret sweet hot church of life; 
Life pinned and poured, life of miles around, 
Sweet in bleeding the golden blood source 
That untapped stayed dry, cracked, dark.

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