Monday, February 6, 2012


The mark of our woodpecker, the sapsucker.

I kissed the stolid maple where it wept, with ruffled bark shiny and wet and sweet.  The sapsucker has pierced it even as the sap rises.

I sipped that watery draught, which is like the promise of spring.  And a mist cooled my skin as a droplet shattered above me.


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