These golden shackles I wear:
heavy and tight,
but they pay my dues.
They’re outdated and tarnished
but they still have use.
These golden shackles I wear:
rusted iron,
are well past their prime.
They are owned by another,
and yet they are mine.
These golden shackles I wear,
which I hold the key.
I could unlock them right now
but wouldn’t be free.
I found you in the depths of thick terrain.
I guessed you were a beauty, winsome, fair.
But lo, too young; your stem was budded plain,
the climax of your figure wasn’t there.
I trusted you would blossom in a week,
but I had doubt I could return by then.
And I expected I would miss your peak
if I could even find you once again.
Your basal leaf gave hint to who you were:
a freckled maiden, delicate and white.
Yet without face, I could not be so sure;
Thus left uncertain, here I sigh, contrite.
And so I kiss my hope to see you ‘bye
unless I find you blooming next July.
To merely know your name is all I long,
to see your face and figure, if you please.
Oh how you tease to offer just one song
ere ghosting me with silence in the trees.
I heard you sing but once, your melody.
‘Twas not enough to fathom who you are.
I squint and strain my eyes, in hope to see;
but woods are thick and you have gone too far.
How long should I pursue you through the mire
and yearn to catch your beauty in a glimpse?
How far can I give chase before I tire,
when fervent march gives way to aching limps?
Alas, with vestige of your presence gone,
my memory not knowing you lives on.
I planted a seed.
I assumed to have claim
to the fruit, to the plant
of that seed I had lain;
but it wasn’t to be so.
The seed I had sown
was a plant of its own
and my part in its life
it had quickly outgrown.
So let it be so.
For the plant was never mine.
I was just a sower of a seed,
and I guess… that is fine.
I will find satisfaction
in watching the prose.
I’ll watch it gain traction,
bear fruit and feed those
who don’t know
that I planted the seed,
that seed that still grows;
and I’m happy I planted that seed
…even if…
nobody knows.
When sinking into a bleak sheol
and seeking a torch to stay night’s wrath,
electric light is the prudent pick;
but given a choice…
Refuse the switch, and ignite a wick;
for though bulbs are best to show your path,
a flickering flame will warm your soul.
The flames have dwindled down to logy coal.
Ay, my roaring stove has been exhausted.
It kindled warmth, with passion sang its soul;
then in frigid darkness – somehow lost it.
Hours ago, the hottest I remember,
I felt it toast my face and proof my core.
Now it crumbles cold to crusted ember,
and long is night to go on empty store.
I try to stoke it, feed the famished fire,
but every piece I pile only smothers.
The birch, the oak, and all that I desire
overwhelms the remnants like the others.
It seems the only hope to stave its death
is twig the grounds that glow and give them breath.
I hiked deep into woods | while breaking virgin snow.
I saw some tracks pass through | they appeared to be fresh.
The hooves of a large stag| wandered into the brush
So I veered from my path | curious where they’d go.
They meandered around oaks | and no hurry was had,
but then I saw the tracks | suddenly had more space.
I guessed the deer had heard | my presence in his place
and so by leaps and bounds | the buck jumped from his pad.
Hoping to catch a glimpse, | quietly I pressed on.
I would peer through the trees | as I reached a hill’s crest,
but all I’d see was tracks; | he’d left me in his dust
for every time I’d look | he was already gone.
I knew not where I was, | though lost and on a roam;
I seemed to know this place. | I had seen it before.
Then looking up the hill, | I saw the roof next door.
Though I never found the deer,| I’m glad he brought me home.
Think upon a maple in November:
Just standing dormant, drab in shades of gray.
It had color, scarcely I remember;
When first its spectrum faded, I can’t say.
Recalling vernal days when blooming bells
rang hope for verdant clouds to fill the wood.
Then later raised to glow when autumn fell,
the acer blazed in glory where it stood.
‘Til the wind and rain stripped off its vigor;
its impetus now lifeless on the ground.
Fallen, leaves it barely stand in rigor,
and yet suppose there might be promise found.
For in dregs of winter it will offer
sweet returns that spring from hidden coffer.
I know the secret you have concealed
there, when the daylight is shining bright.
You seem small, subtle, without a force;
But comes the darkness
and your luminescent codes of Morse
will dance to entrance the ebon night
as your significance is revealed.
With the turn of a bit | and a boy in embrace,
They take mallet in hand | to pound spiles into place.
The quick lick of a drip| puts a smile on his face,
As the trees fill the pails | in a slow, patient pace.
It was a good year for a sap run. Unfortunately, I have been too busy to full enjoy it or cook all of the sap that I could have… But I did manage to get almost 30 taps in and ended with just under a gallon of syrup. I could have cooked at least three times that amount with the taps I had in, but time didn’t permit more than one day of cooking, and I wept as gallons of spoiled sap were later dumped.
My junior had a great time tapping trees. From turning the bit and brace, to pounding in the century-old heirloom spiles now being used by the fifth generation. I recall licking the sap drips as my grandparents cooked sap on the north shore of Mille Lacs. As far as I know, my grandpa’s dad started the Hall family tradition when he came to Minnesota from Indiana, though it’s possible syrup stretches back further into the family history.
When cooking at my grandparents, they would use an old sorghum pan my great-grandfather had purchased for $11 from a Montgomery Ward catalog. It’s got leaks and patches and many nuances, so it’s probably best that heirloom is retired.
There isn’t a lot else to do outdoors in late March in northern Minnesota, so syrup season comes at a perfect time. In order to fully embrace a day being productive in the woods, we planned a feast of outdoor cooking while the sap boiled. Maple Sriracha Chicken Kebabs. Maple Pecan Sweet Potatoes. Lamb Kebabs. All cooked on an open fire in the woods. Also a tasty treat— ladling a hot cup of semi-syrup-sap from the pan and adding some peppermint schnapps.
I have fond memories of cooking syrup with my grandparents, and I look forward to moving the family tradition forward.
