O, maple syrup milk jug
Thy gallon-capacity belly filling
Gathering sweet, clear beginnings.

Thou came to me cradling creamy dairy
Served quietly as a breakfasty vessel
Never leaky, never wary.

And now, with a hole cut in the collar of thy body
Thy cap still affixed tight
Thou clings to the wood of the maple in suspended flight.

Drip. Drip. Drip.
Cool elixir taps the sole of thy ship
We wait minutes, hours, days, for it to spilleth over thy lip.

Thy translucence allows unfettered inspection of levels
I needn’t leave the warmth of mine hearth
To witness this maple syrup’s birth.

Haters gon hate, on thy non-metallic makeup
“It looks trashy, and vile, and clashes with nature.”
But thou cost me nothing, fattening the wallet of this maple syrup maker.

Recycle, reuse, reduce… thou silently chant
Reveling an afterlife that lasts well into April
Thy duality in purpose preserves Vermont’s stately old maples.

Alas, whilst the last drop drips and the first bud buds
Thy duty now served
Thou art forever a gold-giving god, nevermore a milk jug.