Chopping Green

we cut our own this year,
revving up the pick-up,
slamming its doors on the cold.

our own feet warm,
as we move along
stagnant highways for thirty miles,
rocketing down the asphalt,
spotting young deer ready
to cross the road.

a sylvan scene at last,
decorous greenery arranged
in long rows, their branches
fully laden with snow.

we are given an ax,
heavy on our shoulders,
and we march down
the tree lines, looking
for perfection.

taking turns,
we chop, capturing
green life’s essence,
leaving a two-foot stub
sticking out, draining sap
to yellow grass,
where next year another
will sprout its readiness
for sacrifice.