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The secret of maple country

Drill, at winter's First hint of relaxing, Holes in a ring Every eight inches Around the maples, Beads on a string. Tap. Sap Plinks into tins, Plonks into plastic, Splashes and spills Till poured to a pan And boiled over woodflame, Forty clear gallons Down to one with the pale Gold shivering sweetness Of sun on snow. So While the nights stay cold. Spring Clouds the issue.

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