Whose sap this is I think I know
As from the tree it drips and flows.
The tree won’t mind me gath’ring here
To fill my bucket sweet and slow.
The tree stands upward without fear,
Each drop of sap falls like a tear
Into the patient plastic pail,
The drop sound pleasing to my ear.
Up the hill and down the vale
Through snow and mud and sleet and hail
The trees pump faithfully their spirit
From roots to leaves, it never fails.
The tree stands still as I get near it,
So close I sometimes think I hear it,
Rising liquid pushing clear up,
No gravity can quash or or smear it.
The arch is ready, all my gear up,
Fire burning, flames that rear up;
And hours to go before it’s syrup,
And hours to go before it’s syrup.