She breathed a chill that slowed the sap inside the phloem, stood perfectly still inside the dark, then walked to a field where the distance crooned in a small blue voice how close it is, how the gravity of sky pulls you up like steam from the arch. She sang along until the silence soloed in a northern wind, then headed back to the sugar stand and drank from a maple to thin her blood with the spirit of sap. To quicken its pace to the speed of sound then hear it boom inside her heart. To quicken her mind to the speed of light with another suck from the flooded tap.
Copyright © 2011 by Chard DeNiord. Used with permission of the author.