Daylight fleeing as it does
And evening drawing nigh.
The fire box now glowing,
Feeding sparks to the sky.
Evaporating moisture
Sent up the chimney flu,
There inside the boarded walls
Was smell and sounds I knew.
From levered pipe on the side
There flowed an amber stream.
The sweet odor from the pail,
A sugar maker’s dream.
“Time to fire”, someone says,
With slab of seasoned wood.
Its glowing inferno fed,
Warmth felt from where I stood.
Hard labor and precious time,
Traditions kept alive.
Generations of stories,
It’s how “sugaring” survives.