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Last year the sugar-making moon arrived
like my neighbors, who rendered fat, boiled sap,

finished their winter-time tales of how they thrived
in lean months. This April, though, has turned crap:

no sap runs, no tap drips, no urge itches.
The dead keep count of the throngs arriving

and each day passes without cure. “Curses
cest by gods,
” some say. “Th’ End is Comin’,”

they say; as if there’s never been horror shows
before; as if spring won’t follow winter.

Maple, ghosts and spigots: “’tis not sugar
‘at kills,”
in these sick months … just our sorrows.

Neighbors endure with their tales and laughter
and I listen, lean with this sick hunger.