Log Cabin Chronicles

Maple Sugar Dreams


Into the Nitassinan,
I trudge and sink
through new snow.
A buttery layer of sun
spread out on the white surface,
melting winter.

The purpose of my venture
emerges before me,
thick and strong
like the spirit of Quebec.
Maple leaves,
large enough to mask my face,
dance and sing in mild wind
to the tune of the immigrant son.

Ancient natives
guide my hands.
I penetrate the trunk.
A drill, my tomahawk,
a spout, my wood chip.
Liquid gold sap
pings into a cold metal pail
as I drown my thoughts
in sugar ice and cookies.

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Copyright © 2002 Darren Anderson /Log Cabin Chronicles/10.02