This post at HEP struck me (both parts) as poetry
Today marks the beginning of Maple season for me. I will clean the leaves and debris from the stone stacked fire hearth I built, lay dry wood in, and sit the stainless steel pan down. Soon the pan will begin to ping as the sap heats up. And that will continue as I add more and more sap. About 6 hours for today's boil, plus an hour in the kitchen finishing.
I would also like to share this.
The traditional Ojibwa people read the weather and the woods the way we read books today. They watched the animal tribes and the bird tribes and the twigs and the soil. At ishpibiboon, the time when the bald eagles returned in the spring, they knew it would soon be time to harvest ziinzibaakwadwaaboo, sap, from anininaatig, the maple, the tree of inini, the human being.
From Sugartime by Susan Carol Hauser
Shadow*TeaTimeTim | 02.24.06 - 9:47 am
1 comment:
Did a little googling and found this poem:
Maple Sugar Dreams
by Darren Anderson
Into the Nitassinan,
I trudge and sink
through new snow.
A buttery layer of sun
spread out on the white surface,
melting winter.
The purpose of my venture
emerges before me,
thick and strong
like the spirit of Quebec.
Maple leaves,
large enough to mask my face,
dance and sing in mild wind
to the tune of the immigrant son.
Ancient natives
guide my hands.
I penetrate the trunk.
A drill, my tomahawk,
a spout, my wood chip.
Liquid gold sap
pings into a cold metal pail
as I drown my thoughts
in sugar ice and cookies.
kheart
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