The rule is simple: to collect maple sap
it must be below freezing at night, above by day.
Go in only so deep—
measure twice, drill once; this could be our refrain
to keep from killing
the trees. I’m careful, hold my cold palms against
the bark, pretend I can feel the maple’s heart
while my knuckles crack and bleed from the late
winter dry air. When the sun
opens wide, the drips collect quicker: we all want
to touch our tongues to the slightly sweet leak,
like prayer.
If the season is just right, black bears lick the spigot
as their first sip after the long winter sleep.
The rules are mostly about ratios and measurements,
forty to one, two-hundred nineteen degrees, one tap per ten:
I live in inches and gallons, my own body grown wide and heavy
in winter-weight—a size up, measured in pounds
and the tightness of fabric across my shoulders and belly. I measure
too often, consider if the bears consider their girth
as emotional weight, if they think
in percentages and measurements, or do they just know
what’s right—they don’t need to pretend the maple’s heart beats
because they already know its truth, and that rules
are a weight all their own.
