Maine Spring

by Amy Ballard

I.

The bare maples gave sap,
thin and clear as water;
like spring, it could not be distilled
quickly, but must boil down
on the wood stove
while eager lips imagined syrup
 
II.
Spring came slowly,
the white woods 
reflected in a bead of water
at the tip of an icicle, 
the forest floor pooling
in the footprints of deer
 
III.
Sometimes it rained
while the snow still covered
the ground. After days of it,
meager white islands flecked
with snow fleas 
remained at the bases of the trees
where temporary lakes fed each other
like unhealthy loves
 
IV.
When the snow was gone,
we wore our tired pac boots
into the woods; they filled with water
and we sloshed back,
the bottoms of our toes unwrinkling
while we warmed our feet
on the apron of the stove
 
V.
When the sun shone, we 
picked bluets barefoot
in the damp grass
because this was Maine
and spring would always come
but always slowly
and always redolent of water

"Maine Spring"  first appeared January 2017 in Amy's chapbook, Landlocked.


116th Weekly Poetry Contest
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