it’s just a tossle off the travelor’s tailored tongue.
taking it upon himself to hold it still, he labors.
i am not a man worth knowing, he said aloud. but i am with a soul
pure as the sap tapped willingly.
true, though it must be boiled.
(and also with the mind to take it again and again from the flames)
but from a day spent gathered,
from a day spent watching,
yields the sugar once under cover of the earth’s beautiful
but ultimately bitter
facade.
in waiting, we find its sweetness.

you should know:
patience as a watch maker won’t save you any time.