Maine Maple

In early spring, when the cold still holds the ground in place, the trees begin to move. Not visibly, but in a way that can be gathered—one bucket at a time.

There is no urgency to it. The work unfolds slowly, almost without notice. Buckets fill, are emptied, and returned again. It is a process that depends entirely on conditions no one controls.

For my father-in-law, this is not just a seasonal task. It is a way of staying in step with something older than the work itself. The scale is small, but the meaning isn’t. It exists in the repetition—in the quiet agreement to return each year, knowing that one season may not resemble the next.