A form change poem

(with thanks to David Bouchard, If You’re Not From the Prairie . . . )

 

If you’re not from New England,

You’ve never tasted syrup.

Buckets of sap, boiling hot, steaming.

Open your mouth!  Taste it!

Sugary, smooth, sliding down your throat.

If you’re not from New England,

You’ve never tasted syrup.

 

If you’re not from New England,

You haven’t felt the wind.

Cold, stinging,

Burning your cheeks and ears.

Making your nose pink,

Creeping into your sleeves,

Taking over.

Warmth gone, you run inside to get rid of that icy wind.

If you’re not from New England,

You haven’t felt the wind.

 

If you’re not from New England,

You haven’t seen animals.

Black, brown, white, every color.

Dashing, scampering, slipping, sliding animals,

Every size, type, and kind.

If you’re not from New England,

You haven’t seen animals.

 

If you’re not from New England,

You haven’t seen the woods.

Dark, dreary, close-together trees,

Everywhere, covering the land.

Don’t get lost!

There’s a chance it won’t be easy

Getting out of those trees.

If you’re not from New England,

You don’t know trees.

 

If you’re not from New England,

You don’t know the mud.

Icky, sticky, mushy, a mess!

Mixed with the slush,

Mud glues you to the ground.

It is likely that you’re not going to get out

Of this boot-swallowing disaster.

If you’re not from New England,

You don’t know the mud.

 

My hair is the swaying grass.

My eyes are filled with water droplets.

My feet grip the ground with dark, brown roots.

My veins are flowing with syrup.

I love New England.