When the lake is roiling, you draw me into the fields
Amish men and their horses
Pulling carts of spent hay
You have seen me lacing my boots in the mornings
Leaning into the forest
Listening to the breeze
You fill my arms with taming;
Metal tappers, new buckets, hoses,
A tall clean bin.
You say the weather will break
The sap will rise
We will tap the trees.
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