Sugar Shack

My god lives here 
in the darkness, 
in the snow, 
in buckets of sap, 
the soul of the trees, 
flowing by the freeze and thaw 
of howling night and gentle day, 
like me, 
learning to flow 
with ice in my lungs 
and hot sugar crystals glazing 
my wind-ravaged cheeks. 
On split lips, 
I taste something elemental. 
Pine needles, cold. 
The sweat of the mountain. 
The proximity to the fire and boil 
that is not my baptismal font. 
My god lives in the winter 
and the snow. 

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