The harlot maples crimson tipped nails
tap, drum, strum, and plunk;
at Aprils blasted blue sky.
Raking a wind born trail
across skeletal palms
and forearmed branches,
in a come-hither dance;
reawakening the cerulean stratus
above the dense sugar maple forest.
Sap taps a tune into tin buckets;
and, so, Spring is sprung.