Tapping

Our maple tree stands in the middle of our yard

Bent with the weight of its branches outstretched

Naked in the grey landscape

I pierce its side and it bleeds

Drops of clear liquid – almost tasteless

Spill forth into a vessel

Waiting for a transformation

From one life to the next

Days later, the sap is boiled down

To a rich amber sweetness

It is shared among a multitude at Sunday breakfast

Filling our hearts with the warm winds of promise

I gaze out the sun-filled window

A tree, once seemingly dead, rises into a new life

With a shower of soft green

It’s arms outstretched towards me