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.