Share this story
Close X
Switch to Desktop Site


In the Middle of Nowhere

Huddled close on bales of frosted hay,

About these ads

we bump our way out into the field,

the tractor and our noses chuffing steam,

the tree farmer, blue-lipped and toothless,

saying something we cannot hear.

Everywhere, rows of spruce, fir, Scotch pine

all decorated with what morning flurries

left behind. A good one in every row,

About these ads

but we urge the farmer to drive a bit further,

refusing to cut short the ride that roots us

to one another on this cold, jouncing flatbed,

living symbols of a season's simple joy.

Follow Stories Like This
Get the Monitor stories you care about delivered to your inbox.