(In memory of Michael Levine)
His red beard copper in the sun,
he battled patiently in the black field
against the sumac, sassafras,
Canadian thistle. For years his forehead
burned as he looked toward the oaks’ cool shade
and gouged sweat from his eyes
and bent again to address his enemies.
The fine needles of the thistle
took residence in his skin
and the sumac spread in his dreams,
red veins staining the green.
But he won, finally, and the field was cleared
when he went away to war.
When he returned,
nothing had been planted,
and the sumac curled redder than his beard,
the thistles looked him in the eye,
and it was all gone to sassafras again.
