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First Sap
by Leigh Marthe

These last days of February are something
to look forward to in this northern place—
the thaw after the coldest days
of winter
relaxes the hardness
of the dark
with the return of the sun.

The buckets
always arrive on the trees
suddenly, like ornaments
marking the idea
of spring,
ready to capture
the first sweetness of the maple—
to harvest liquid sun.

Pass by any stone wall
and see the bodies of trees
woven together with hope
for warmth gathered
out of the rings of
the leafless beauty.

Isn't this what love is?
Lovers stare at the starkness
of the beloved, tap into
the layers just under the skin
where life force flows,
and trust that thin sugar
solution will become thicker
and richer as it condenses,
gives off the water
and leaves behind more and more
golden sweetness
to sustain the soul
through all the other days
of the years.

Who imagined this process
of flame and first sap
boiling in the darkest nights,
in the deepest sorrow,
that brought courage to wait
for the hum of bees,
the outline of leaves
on the ridge of summer?

Copyright 2008 by Leigh Marthe