Long Shadows at Winter’s End

It warmed enough for water

to liquify again and

drip from the eaves,

even if a down vest and boots

still the smart way to tromp about

when taking out the trash

and retrieving the mail.

What are we spinning into

when we dive under the covers

each night only to find dreams taste

more satisfying than our daily fare?

(I’m not asking for an answer—

questions floated and forgotten

one way to leave winter behind,

like crossing the zig zag bridges

found in some Japanese gardens,

a side stepping to throw

demons off our trail.)

In These Hills

There’s sap in these hills,

the sugar maples

just beginning to run.

The farmers have them hooked

up with plastic tubing

so it looks like the trees

are giving blood or worse,

stuck on life support.

They get so cranky

these farmers for

the two or so weeks

while the run lasts –

twenty hour days

boiling it all down.

I’m not sure what they’d get

if they boiled me down,

but I know it would not be

anything near as good

as maple syrup.