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
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