There was a time when blood was not necessary,
and a man could work a pickaxe into terrain
cracked into clods by a drought of nectar,
bleeding nothing from its body but paving for rain,
digging, going home in the evening with arms
drained from swinging a pick and striking dirt.

Today we walk around still waiting for rain
that never comes, hands hanging. Soil never dies.
Something always brings it a new beginning,
whether it’s early in the continuum of life or late.
Earth finds a way, the sprig of a black-face song
in its teeth, pushing demise back on its knees.

The sound of an older man breathes below a window
at a manor inside which age is asleep. He comes out
and stands before the crowd with his ageless head,
bent on letting death know that its end is near.
You can tell his grip is firm, and when the pickaxe
flashes, the crowd moves back, holding its breath.

He’s the father of the father of the son and grandson
they came for and took away. His wife still goes
to the well every morning when spring water is clear,
when it is not yet time for anyone else to be up readying
day—before a sun shines fresher meaning on them.