Planting Christmas Trees
Rows of little pointy trees,
Hundreds of ‘em under an August sky.
Push the spade into the
Tough sod,
Showing a dark wedge of earth,
Then plunk one in
And press it down snug
With your boot.
They have the best view here;
Looking over the mountains
Toward blue and bluer.
They’re gonna be chopped off like cabbages
But they don’t care,
They just spread out
Those spidery roots,
And take a drink.
Reach up those little spruce fingers
To the sky,
And settle in,
Tasting sun.
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