little desperate-
ly industrious sap sucker,
pilfering what
deaf torpid
insects you can
and extracting,
while you're at it,
whatever little bits
of calcified sweetness
this maple may
have scrimped
and stowed away
in the marrow of its
snow covered limbs:
what advice do you proffer
for the winter ahead?
With your dots
and mad dashes,
what Morse code
message do you send
to the feather-
poor soul which is
mired down below?
Grim or perseverant—
which posture
toward the end
do you portend for all
the living and their
tokens of the dead?
