Sweetness and Smoke
He remembered the Ohio of his youth.
Winters of pure, glistening snow. His parents
taking him on wagon rides over hidden,
winding trails through naked woodlands.
Swooping great horned owl. Fog-breathed
whitetail deer, and string-like clouds flirting
with the cool, pearlescent cup that was his moon.
At trail's end, wagons emptying.
Families standing and sitting around a
great, crackling bonfire. The smoke-laden
breath of burning hickory, maple, and ash
stinging his eyes and lungs. So aromatic.
Warm cider and cinnamon. Cookies and treats.
People singing. The plush fragrance of
coffee that he was still too young to share.
It was all splendid adventure.
Afterward. Falling into a dreamless,
hibernal sleep before getting halfway home.
Later in winter. People drawing the
blood of the maple tree into buckets.
He had seen it drip from miniscule
tap-wounds in the bark. As the tree
was alive, he wondered if it hurt?
Workers hauling the sap-laden
buckets to slat-sided shacks deep
within the forest. The maple's lifeblood
being rendered into the most savory syrup
and maple sugar candy.
Sweet treats and a delicacy for
pancakes and waffles.
Ambrosia, his mother and father called it.
Life was all sweetness and smoke.
Crisp, clear, untried.
His mother and father were so right.
Sweetness and Smoke
4-30-15
Free Verse
Copyright © Brian Baumgarn | Year Posted 2015
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