Remnant

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.