He was spreading seed
on a tear in the field,
reprising an ancient refrain
at the thought of the yield:
One for the pigeon,
one for the crow,
one to rot
and one to grow.
His father’s fathers
broadcast acres of grain
that was stitched to the ground
by the needles of rain.
Good hays and harvests —
but their true beatitudes were trees,
hope of the ages,
the crop of histories,
as they heard the holy orders
and mastered persistence,
holding their own
like that oak in the distance.
Like a word to the wise
their revenant chant:
a hundred times more
for the planting than plant.