Somewhere in this large field was once a grave—
so my brother says as he tells me stories
of our grandfather I had never heard—
no cemetery, just one sunken grave
that our granddad plowed around for however
long until he grew tired of losing wheat
or corn that might add a peck to his yield.
No county record, no ledger, no name—
we know only this: that a simple life
ended here long ago, plain words were said,
and a flat rock was sufficient headstone.
One day that austere mark was tossed away,
and then he strode behind the sweaty Belgians,
his half‐deaf ears not quite hearing the plow
slicing untrod earth and roots and coming
just that close to breaking those ancient bones.