On my way to work this morning I saw several woodlots with galvanized buckets hanging from trees -- it's maple syrup season here in Michigan.
Now, you'd think there'd be all sorts of lovely, evocative, hooray-for-spring poems dealing with this annual ritual of the north...but all I could find was this rather macabre vision of working the sugarbush, from the maple tree's point of view.
Maybe I'll compose my own poem:
Pancakes, French toast, teriyaki
Maple syrup -- ain't we lucky!