Thursday, March 3, 2016

poem of the day March 3


Boil boil boil
the maple oil
Wood  inside
the fire box
Sap on top 
Amber in the pan
Tiny golden bubbles
remind me as 
I tend the band
All those generations
from Indians
to New England farmers
Iron pots
Hollowed logs
Reverse osmosis
and pipe lines
My how we change
everything
except
the sap
Still sweet
as can be
running up
the maple tree

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