he took the cliche sabbatical
when his wife died, careening through
the Rockies to the jagged Pacific coast,
seeing old lovers along the way

ending in Iowa
with his daughter's family:
flat lands, with no ups and downs
surprise turns, or fatal strokes

there the grief was level
his daughter of strong faith
his granddaughter young enough
to yet see heaven in blue sky

mornings after Cheerios
she would lead him around the section
edifying him about the livestock, their purpose;
she introduced him to Harriet

her pet pig;
he couldn't help but think of his Hazel
and if the consonant and vowel were coincidental
or a contrivance of a child's supple mind

his granddaughter spoke of Hazel
with sublime ease, absent the halting
staccato utterances of adults when
they mentioned his wife's name

after all, his grandchild saw her
in a passing cloud, or in the glint
of moonlight on the pond,  
in clear azure sky

soon it came time to say goodbye
to the hog, who had been with the child
a sixth of her years--but she knew this
was the way of things

feeding and fondling new things
watching them grow, becoming cautious
when their mass exceeded your own
when they began to look away

'twas then it was time
all God's creatures would lose footing
even in this flat place,
and go to sleep

though the child would not forget
Hazel or Harriet, for the latter was on the table,
sizzling and succulent, the former on the mantel,
framed in gold, smiling with eyes open