Winter is no time for beginnings.

'Long about mid-February, though, sap begins to flow.

That's why we were tapping trees then:

Cold nights and milder days.

What was I doing out there, feeling the chill

Deep in my marrow?

For more than sixty years I've joined this crowd,

Got to be there, help with the work,

Help fetch sweetness out from under the bark.

Then I saw you, last year's widow,

Stamping the rest of the snow from the silly pink boots

Your grandkids bought you. With that warm laugh,

The merry look in your eyes as your gloved hands patted the trunk,

The deft way you tucked soft white hair under a coarse cap,

I was hooked as solid as the bucket under the spigot.

What call had I to be looking?

Old dried-up thing that I am, worn-out carthorse,

You with the bloom on you still...has time been kind,

Or was it just no match for you?

Woman, you're a wonder.

Later, by the wood fire, I stole glances while the syrup boiled

And the gang laughed and joked over coffee.

Did you notice me looking?

I thought:

Your mouth's a rose beneath the violets of your eyes.

I'll bet you taste sweeter than the sugar from that tree.

Now, ain't that something to be thinking on a cold February night?