Maple Syrup Spring

It's almost maple syrup time. Each year
I walk the streets in spring and smell the air
as flowers open, petalless and green.
They smell like stacks of pancakes ripening
toward country breakfasts. Candle flames to wicks
adhere, and draw up golden liquid wax
just like the bees that burn in early sunshine
clinging to the maple blossom's stamen
sucking at the nectar, honey-sweet.
Too drunk to sting, they crawl upon my sweat-
damp forearm. I have no equipment-- taps,
lines and buckets, syrup-boiling vats--
nor even probing mouthparts, like a bee
but maple flavors every breath for me.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside