Winter’s Harvest –

shelter the trees in the lean ice of winter, freeze

with them as they give in to us, their sap

uprooted and released, drawn

from the earth delivering

their lifeblood up

to budding leaves; We

carve holes in their bark

to steady

the small plastic taps

that will deliver the ore, sweet

sap of a wood Nymph,

pumped upwards

from the core, collected

here, in buckets,

fluttering moths stuck

in the

ice, wings

flattened against the rusted

aluminum; --

We reach our chilled hands

to empty

the overflowing pails . . . .

-- our bones

are strengthened with the wild sap

running through our veins, our

skin is bark, our hair

the long tendril roots shooting over

the moist earth, each

curve masculine

and feminine, instances of

sharp disclosures

and sudden silence -- We

look to the trees as stalwart gods

who would

Share with Us

their intricate Nectar –

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