Tramping through the slush and mud,
My kittens following me, my little bud,
My mom and dad, my sister and me,
Each carrying something, we walk up to a tree.
Wielding a drill in his right hand,
The shavings on the ground do land,
The sap now draining from the hole,
Directly from the trees own soul.
Now that we've broken the trees picket,
Into the hole we pound a spicket,
The sweet clear liquid running fast,
We push on a tube that fits like a cast.
Now the sap runs down the tube,
Making it slippery as if with lube,
On the spicket we place a hook,
Made from a hanger, not by the book.
Now from the hook is hung,
A blue bucket beneath the sun,
The sound is clear as the sap falls,
The clear sound later for me calls.
On to the next Maple tree,
We can already plainly see,
This will be a good year,
For collecting the trees tear.
When the trees are tapped,
And all our appetites are capped,
We take two buckets a piece,
And work without cease.
When we have 40 gallons stored,
We place it in a pot, hanging by a metal cord,
We then light a fire beneath the pot,
And unceasingly work on keeping it hot.
Slowly but surely we steadily work,
While in the air around the smell does lurk,
The sweet smoke from the fire,
Gives scent to the air around the musty mire.
Constantly burning the sap grows thick,
It darkens in color and all it does is stick,
After multiple strainings and a lot of heat,
The liquid is finally ready to bottle and eat.
The sap was surely always sweet,
However now on food it has a seat,
A fresh warm pancake and a square of butter,
Pour some on, but we still have a clutter.
Now we set aside a years stock,
And give some as gifts in a small crock,
Many thanks we receive from those we gave,
But for us much money we do save.
After so many long hard working days,
In our pantry the syrup now stays,
We don't have to order from over seas,
We've earned all our treats from the trees.