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
shattered
and stirring
sprung heart.