This Is About Mountains

By Hilda Conkling

It’s maple sugar time
In the mountains.
The brook has climbed its bank
To look over into the world.
Trees are beginning to think . . .
They stretch themselves.
The bareness of the woods will go
If the pattern of the year is what I learned
Last Spring.
The mountains I knew best
Used to have festivals . . .
There was September on Starr King . . .
I remember the apple-sauce tree,
I remember how I would smash apples on top of a rock
Crush them with a stone for the calves to eat.
How the chipmunks scolded me for taking the apples!
Chipmunks own the mountains
But the mountains haven’t heard about it yet.
March maple-sugar and September apples
And a cave of honey the bees know,
And Hilda to think about them
Afterward. . . .

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