There is a land of unheralded sweetness
A melting pot under the northern sun
Where one finds Indian and Sri Lankan refugees
With skin tones as brown as the maple syrup
Tapped from a bough of sugar maple
And the industrious oriental migrant
As bamboo-yellow as the autumn foliar dressing
On the tips of golden maples

And in this potpourri of multiculturalism
Which is as sticky and gooey
As the consistency of Maple taffy
Different shades of skin-bark melt under one hoisted maple leaf
After all, there is nothing remotely as beautiful
As a million trees uniting in a northern wilderness
To spur on a sugar-house economy
Where the color of the sugarbush – sugar, golden, red or black
Is of little of value, and what matters is the sweetness
Of the syrup beneath



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