it is sunday and k takes out the taps
from the maple trees in our backyard and the one down at m’s house,
and brings all of the stuff inside for me to find later
in the dish drying rack, underneath all of the plates, rinsed of tree sap and
ready for storing again, marking the end
I learn that when an exoskeleton of a tarantula breaks, they (who’s they?) fix it
with super glue.
t tells us about the success of thursday night, the first rain just barely over 40 degrees, when more than 300 salamanders cross Henry Street, migrating from their winter homes to the vernal pools for the spring.
I host more than 20 people and 2 babies in my living room, and we all sit close together on cushions on the floor around low tables that we arranged in afternoon with ornate red and purple tablecloths and lots of small handmade bowls of ceremonial foods, for the holiday of Passover when we laugh and eat and remember to sing.
on the day that february decided to be july
i drive k and e to the train for their adventure south just as the sun is
i drive home from the train and thread my way through the morning mist
i arrive home to empty the bucket of maple sap from the tree in the yard into a pot on the wood stove (still unlit) (too warm)-which makes five pots of varying sizes- all full to the brim with maple sap, waiting. to boil.
i put on leggings and sneakers and run around the block because it is already almost warm enough for a t shirt, and i see j who is also running, so we run together for five minutes.
we drink maple sap in the open doorway.
all before breakfast.
the red winged blackbirds come out and I see them in the garden and the air is thick with shorts and tank tops and rushing river melt.
i press send on the seed order for the plants i’ll tend in the spring.
the chunks of ice shrink in the shade.
i go to bed before the stove is ever lit.
the cooking pots of sap will wait for tomorrow, when we light a fire, when it is winter again.
a sugar maple tree in a past life she says of me commenting on my drinking
maple sap out of a half gallon mason jar
for the 12th day in a row.
i am holding the unwieldy glass container with both hands, sipping.
it does taste
heavenly. if heaven were also the home of all past lives and the subtle sweet
juices of what we didn’t know we remembered.
the central leaf of the aloe vera by my window severely droops over
in one instant, as if to tell me that is the direction it wants to go,
and so I move it
five feet to the west,
to sit on my bedside table close to my pillow.
I’ll throw ya to the wolves for that one he says over the phone and I can laugh because
the wolves in this case will be 12 and 13 year olds,
and I will be singing them songs.