Melinda Josie

When you were young
you took me out
one night to where
you had been sugaring,

and we toasted
with our cups of snow,
over which the amber
sweetness of trees

had been poured.
Each spring now I
check the taps, since
you have moved away.

Maybe it’s the sleight
of hand of age, but each
year the sap sluices,
it seems, later and later,

too cold to run.
Another week, I tell myself.
If you have the secret,
it’s there with you,

daughter. The woods
are poised to hear it,
and yet it will not come
and will not come.

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