Mid-December

By

In the Middle of Nowhere

Huddled close on bales of frosted hay,

we bump our way out into the field,

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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,

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.

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