Chardon Sugar Off

Galvanized
by the irresistible spring,
upwelling juice of maple
drips tin drum tattoos
in buckets emptied to vats.
Plaid-shirted guardians, paddles
digging into the cauldron,
stir the tree-blood.
For a blessing
they dip and pour
a communion
into Sunday white dishes.
Ice cream spoons, symbols
of the guardian paddles,
we grip and stir. Cooling,
the molten syrup
nestles in the snow.
Transubstantial crystals
coalesce in the dishes.
'Invert and multiply,'
directs this green god.
Hunger for the soft breast
of hardwood
becomes too much to bare.
We partake as true supplicants:
in awe, in wonder, in lust.

I think I still have
a carbon atom
or two in me
from eating that tree sap,
Forty-two long years ago
now. I could not have lost it
all. Some of it must still be there:
sweet and tall and growing
in the sun and snow.