Rain rotten, wind twisted,
the mossy swayback roof
at last crushed by snow,
the old sugarhouse lies victim
to the storms and strain
that grow a good sugarbush.
Sap once boiled golden
in this sauna of woodfire and vapor
where visitors shared stories
rising on steam like prayers,
knowing sugaring is done
in the sweetness of time.
Cycling season-to-season, sap
to syrup, buckets to tubing,
old maples to firewood,
there’s chatter under new roofs,
drudgery is joy, and sugarmakers
are ever aboil for a better year.
- David Leff
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