I know the time has come to make

My signal where he sowed before.

Alert for change, I bend to break

A stinging bit of parsley stalk.

I wave it at the crows, and walk

Back in the house and close the door.

Hanson is dead. His hands are lost,

More memorable than voice or face.

His arms are blown like pollen-dust

With brawn and loving kindnesses.

I cannot mourn his buried trees.

He is not planted any place.

The hill will shoulder him with oak,

The oak will hand him down to shade,

The shade will face him into rock.

Backward and forward he will go

So many days, I cannot know

How long it takes him to be dead.

Nevertheless, the time has come

For me to make my sign, to leave

The earth alone, and wander home.

Earth has enough to mourn about.

Man’s weeping it can do without,

Whether by garden or by grave.