Mid-December

In the Middle of Nowhere

Huddled close on bales of frosted hay,

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,

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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