The Tree In the Front Yard
The silver maple stands quietly and proud,
The lone elder on an urban block.
It bears another cold winter and begins to thaw
as spring approaches.
When the days turn warmer, I put the spile in and hope to catch some of the tree’s sap,
for it has much to share.
When my bucket is full, I get to work boiling the sap into the sweet syrup,
That we share at the breakfast table.