Halfway North

this blustery March afternoon

I’m crossing what is

still my back yard for a time

drill in hand, a spile, a bright blue bag –

38 degrees,

sandals skirting

dried dog poop

among brown leaves that fell,

bright, the autumn before;

the hole on the underside

of the spile, yesterday confounded me

but the sap does not

come down from on high,

bestowed by easy gravity –

the bark is breached, the

pressure relieved –

sap called up from the roots,

from the depths,

after a long winter the tree

is in need;

the sun meets the branches,

rays to

limbs like a perfect

kiss

and suddenly

there is sap,

rising.