The Field

The man who raised those perfect Christmas trees
Near Flemington, those spruces that you love,
Is well beyond the toil of hands and knees.
His field’s reduced to stunted firs, enough
To get the family tree farm through December.

Jesus, though, its bleak. The underbrush
Has taken over all the paths. Remember
How that hill once flourished blue and lush?
Today, its like the Battle of the Marne,
All muddy ruts and broken stumps. A drum
Of burning scrapwood…

“Saws are in the barn!”
A bearded man, perhaps a son, has come
To greet us from the porch. “You serve yourself.”
We find the bow saw rusting on a shelf.

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