The field was as blank as the milk-paint sky,

A color of smoke, unchanging all day

In its fog, like last night’s dream, unshaken.

The ground, tufted with straw, stubbled with grass,

Matted into knots as tough as rope, parts

Like hewn hemp with each wedge of the shovel,

Clots of earth crumbling, breaking into

Field-color, oxidized brush of bronze,

Stiffened and dried with wind and frost, cutting this

Verdigris with scabby earth like rust.

And then, after pocking the small pasture,

Gently placing the thin twigs that will be,

Carefully mixing black dung with ragged peat,

We scatter it all around the hairy roots.

Then, once the puny trees are standing straight

Gently layering ruptured, russet soil,

To act as its own hand, holding trees firm.