Remnant Poem by Patti Masterman

In that field's a homely stump-
Swollen, broad, with frown so set,
Where waddling farmer hoed his peas,
Wondering they weren't ready yet.

In that marsh, thin willow tree
Grows a bough up, toward its face;
Peering through the leafy fronds-
Of its tribe, there is no trace.

Misshapen rock, perched like a boy
Squishing toes, in muddy brine;
Looking, you can see, just so-
There- beside the dead grapevine.

In this way, the earth recalls
Hoeing farmers, searching wives,
Muddy boys, who once trod here-
Busy, vanished, simple lives.