Hay Field on Methodist Hill

From the time we cleared it, all it's been is trouble,
stubborn and recalcitrant and proud—
every winter, fractious and uncowed,
throwing up new rocks and glacier-rubble:
It's clear it never wanted to be plowed.

And once we got the stones out, it was trees
behaving as if they had the right of way:
Every March the maples have a field day
—don't expect them to give you a year of peace—
shoving, off-side, elbowing out the hay.

When the saplings get above themselves, it's over.
Let them grow a foot or so too high
and—teen-age trees? You might as well go try
and sow the sea with rocks and hope for clover,
or, if you want less trouble, plow the sky.

Copyright © 2003 Deborah Warren All rights reserved
from Southwest Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission