Rows of corn so orderly
But death is not
Orderly, life is.
In the end all returns to
Calm and silent land, so much
Ground to be planted green.
It is the steadiness of life,
It stuns me,
The steadfastness with which
I now must try,
I long to think, how long
Did my father think of death
As release. No more
Rows to be dug,
Homes to be built, maintained,
This earth is but
Darkness to be turned
And I will, but I will still
Not find my father.