Dogwood Winter

Here, the oil grows on trees. Last year These verdant forests gushed forth; Nearly half a million gallons Of their life blood Poured out over America’s pancakes and French Toast. Ribbons of tubing. Cartons of taps. A sack of sharp bits. That unexpected bounty has left me well equipped. This year the trees stand idle in concert with the weather – A coalition of the unwilling. Shadows grow horizontal and fade into twilight. Abandoning the empty pails, I retreat to the backside of Mount Hor And join my companions for dinner. I glance furtively at their fifth chair, temporarily vacant, And don’t discuss the absent Son, In Korea In Uniform. We speak instead about the lack of sap And unfurl campaigns to timber out the weaker wood. Dishes washed, Bottles drained, I exit to the moonless night. Pausing amidst the silent stars, I think of Halvorsen, a man my age. and young Evnin only half that. Two more Empty places At the dinner tables in this Small State. Safely home, I set the clocks ahead an hour, and watch the snow pile up among the daffodils.