Warm sun, cold night, no wind.

How the snow overtopped our galoshes.

The miracle–no other word–

sap dripping into pails.

The taste of trees.


In the shack, ancestral smoke;

Uncle Jersey rising from the steam.

Hot syrup in a sticky jelly glass.

In the house, plain yellow donuts dipped,

amber ribbons on snow,

pickles so we could come back for more.


And when it was all done,

stacks of pails,

the woodpile gone,

grainy scrapings from the boiler,

the world’s sweetest thing.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.