I got curious about how they make maple syrup recently. Turns out it depends on the temperature and the combination of nighttime freezing and daytime thawing that happens in the springtime which builds up pressure in the maple trees. Under pressure, the sap runs. Sap is collected and boiled down to syrup consistency. Then pancakes.
Feels like there's been a long freeze over here. Cold, isolated heart-freeze. Iced-over grief for lost things, time... people. Everything seemed to stop flowing for a while - maybe self preservation. If you let it flow will there be anything left?
But then comes a-thawing. On-shore breezes, little-girl-giggles, vaccinated-visits - strong enough to begin melting this soul-glacier into rusty tin buckets. It hurts a little, the breaking off of pointy icicles and busting up of sunken icebergs. And it's a little muddy from tromping-stomping frozen feet. But the sap has begun to leak out again - coming as tears or creaky smiles. Sweet, though. And ready to boil down and concentrate across a summer. Porch visits, beach-book-afternoons, Maine in June, lakeside in July - stretching out like a green-grass-grace-carpet. A runway for newly painted toes. And fresh faith.
So don't mind me, I'll just be over here eeking some sap out of this old tree. They say a maple can be tapped for sap until they are over 100 years old. Guess I've got a few more years to flow sweet then, huh. Praise be. Selah.
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