Rippling soil sways in ways
In ways a maestro drunkenly
Displays their baton, Earth in
Perfect fluid Earthen motion
It conducts and plays en tandem
The symphony of syrup season
Rings through Vermont’s silken air
Each movement weaves effortless
In majesty.
Hickory smoke leaves the sap house
The chorus of birch bark harkens
Weaving through the chimney’s maw
A mirror of the lone sugarmaker
His jaw a practiced spile, he is
The arch in the evaporator
With a puff of Cuban Affair kush
He admires the beauty of the
sugarbush
mother's arms open
maple-keys unlocking shoots~
not a single bird
***
Tired Muscles, Cortexually Speaking
Straining against the ice-cold rhetoric-
Spewing from a winter of discontent; alive
Only because statues never die, they just
Spout specious diatribes from the halls of
Congress, under glaring tv lights; illuminating
Lascivious lip-smacking gargoyled journalists
Intent on destruction, in any way, at every
Opportunity, America....but I did promise a
Thaw! it was the prelude title before the title
Of this penumbras poem...
I need only look outside, to the nearby tree-line
Tubes snaking thru the maple trees, yes! a
Sugarbush!
Nature is real, statues are not!
My spirit seeks joy
I know where to look, vaya con dios...
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