Winter is Waiting for Me
Me--seven years old and waiting for syrup,
The first boil of the year, the tail end of Winter, the gateway into spring.
No time for breakfast, so my bowl, full to the brim with Cheerios and milk, is in my hands.
“It will not spill” I repeat over and over in my head---as I am waddling on the ice.
Eventually, my feet give way to the ice and Cheerios go everywhere---I can’t believe my eyes
Covered in milk, and a few Cheerios stuck to my first-grade winter coat.
I don’t care.
I see the steam---and begin gliding the best I can down the icy path,
And into the untouched snow where surprisingly, nobody has tread.
Johnson Family Sugar House is the name-- on the sign and on my shirt.
Going in I find a sample bottle golden in color,
The first batch is waiting for me.
Me--seven years old and waiting for syrup,
The first boil of the year, the tail end of Winter, the gateway into spring.
No time for breakfast, so my bowl, full to the brim with Cheerios and milk, is in my hands.
“It will not spill” I repeat over and over in my head---as I am waddling on the ice.
Eventually, my feet give way to the ice and Cheerios go everywhere---I can’t believe my eyes
Covered in milk, and a few Cheerios stuck to my first-grade winter coat.
I don’t care.
I see the steam---and begin gliding the best I can down the icy path,
And into the untouched snow where surprisingly, nobody has tread.
Johnson Family Sugar House is the name-- on the sign and on my shirt.
Going in I find a sample bottle golden in color,
The first batch is waiting for me.
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