MAPLE STAND AT WINTER’S END
Mid-April & a child is trudging
with her father through
a maple stand’s soft snow.
She steps in up to her waist, her legs lost.
He scoops her up even before she
reaches for him, removing each pink boot
to shake it free of packed snow.
Trudging on, the weight of her body
is nothing in his arms.
Together, they lift the lid
of eighty tin pails, peering in
at a new secret every time.
A sweetness is trickling out
into the sad world.
They’ve come to gather.