The House That Paul Built

The doors are open, left ajar even, and the wind enters making the dried mud swirl in the corners.




The smears from a winter's worth of smudge are more noticeable on the windows when the sun sets, later every day.




The favorite t-shirts are resurrected, replacing torn polar fleece. Ball caps return from the bottom of the bucket.




The evaporator is cleaned. And flushed. And rinsed again.




And the smiles, they seem brighter, more full with the longer days.




And it all just seems to come together, no matter the different ways we arrive at Spring.





The sweet steam favors the season. It just wouldn't work in summer.



And like bears wakening after their slumber, we saunter out to find who else might be alive and well.



The popping fire hides the sizzle the ground makes as snow melts in the background.




And the tasting begins.



It's the kind of sweetness that hurts the back of your jaw.



But you just can't resist having a little more.



The steam is mesmerizing.




So is the fact that we can make such sweet love out of the juice of trees.




Just with a little stoking of the fire.