Thought at first that grief had brought him down . . .

Thought at first that grief had brought him down.

His wife dead, his own hand dug the grave

under a willow oak, in family ground—

he got home sick, was dead when morning came.

Soon it was a farmer in the field—

someone’s brother, someone’s father—

left the mule in its traces and went home.

Then the mason, the miller at his wheel,

from deep in the forest the hunter, the logger,

and the sun still up everywhere in the kingdom.