Sugaring Off Time

There is love inside me
that has never been tapped.
Pierce my hardwood armor,
I'm on the verge of spring.

Maples swell with sap
that flows through trunk and branches out,
and outdoors streams of snowmelt
surge downhill round the bucketed trees.

Inside the sugarhouse the aroma of woodfire
marries smoke to vapor, rising in spirals
over steaming vats of syrup.
The love inside me has never been tapped.

Still, sun in my soul nourishes sprouts and buds
that thrive and flourish, until lace perfect leaves
nearly bloom in my blood. There is love inside me
that has never been tapped.
If my veins were transparent you would see that.