Christmas for Franklin
In the yard stood the black tree,
Full of sweet sap for him and me.
We drilled and then tapped,
Hung a bucket to keep it trapped.
It dripped for days. It fell
In drops too slow to tell,
The black sap, sugar sap,
And cold, for me and my granpap.
The tree has since died, torn
By storm, but few I know did mourn.
And the sap between that flowed
Has ceased. And we grow old.
So time will tell, and kill, dry
Up hope, make dreams die.
And tapped sap, and water, and blood
Will all perish beneath time’s mud.
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