Sap Time

I went off to learn to make candy from maple syrup today and I saw this poem and had to laugh and share:

Sap Time

by Albert B. Southwick

The city man drives past and sees the sap pails on the trees.
He stops his car and steps outside and sniffs the fragrant breeze.
He sees the happy farmers with their maple trees on tap.
He breathes a sigh of envy but he’s never gathered sap.

He sees the sled and team come in – it looks like so much fun.
The farmers look so healthy and he wishes he was one.
But in his logic there is apt to be one major gap.
For all his vim and eagerness, he’s never gathered sap.

He wanders to the sap house with its clouds of fragrant steam.
He watches how the rising foam is quelled by drops of cream.
He sees the golden syrup pour and fill the thick felt nap.
He thinks it’s simply super but he’s never gathered sap.

He never slogged for hours at a stretch through mud and slush.
He’s never emptied buckets ’til his mittens turned to mush.
He’s never slipped and fallen down and spilled it on his lap.
He thinks it’s wonderful because he’s never gathered sap.

He doesn’t go to bed to dream of maples row on row.
With miles and miles of buckets just about to overflow.
He thinks it’s quite romantic. He’s a very pleasant chap.
But the brutal fact, my friends is that he’s never gathered sap.

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One Comment

  1. Frank
    Posted April 13, 2011 at 6:29 pm | Permalink

    Ahh, Springtime in New England
    When the gentle breezes blow
    At 60 miles an hour,
    and it’s 25 below.

    I step out in the morning
    and the snow’s up to my butt.
    I take a breath of springtime air
    and my nostrils both freeze shut.

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