A duck swims across the quarry lake.
It leaves a wake on water otherwise still.
You sit on a stone. Cold with night.
Waiting for the morning.
It is almost here. And with it, warmth.
Weather on the cusp of spring.
Cold nights. Warm days. In the Maple trees,
the sap is running.
Look over the treetops and you see smoke.
The sugar houses at work, busy
There is no purpose to your journey
to the summit of the quarry. It is a ritual
without a god. A simple time of watching.
of feeling, of allowing the emotions
held in thrall by your long winter,
About this poem
This is sugar season in Vermont. Cold nights and warm days make the sap rise. It’s a big industry made up of small farmers all over the state, and for a few short weeks the sugar houses are busy boiling the sap down to delicious, rich syrup. But only for a short time.
Not unlike life, when we have periods of amazement and change and growth.
Both seasons must be grasped when they arrive.
The picture was taken in the quarry just across from my home in West Pawlet, VT.
Be well. Travel wisely,