possibly magnificent


Where is the light in the heart tree

of me?

At the edge of the woods

under a white sky

beyond dark, muddy paths

and months of tired, worn snow


I touch the bark

kick up leaves

scouting for signs

of maple

between the ash, tulip and oak.


I've never tapped a tree before.

I've been living dormant,

an inkling of magnificence inside.

I've been told light will come

at the thaw of dawn

when I turn my will to God.


Drill a hole, hammer spiles

set buckets on eight

thick, calloused trunks

and wait for warmth

to call up threads

of slightly sweetened sap,

to awaken rivers

of illumination.

Awaken something

back into life

that is

possibly magnificent.


Possibly more than I alone

have known

with my single


and stirring

sprung heart.