What Was That?

Never was so much hubbub in the morning,
so many shouts and calls, so much expense
of sweat on busy faces, all of the farm
seemed to be pushing against its boundary fence.

It was the time to start the cultivators,
the corn rows crossed the fields serene and level,
we knew the weeds were growing to beat the devil.
we had the chores to do, the pigs got out—

The whole world seemed alert and full of sap.
It was one of those humid mornings late in May
when the leaves are out and the trees are full of motion
changing their shapes like clouds on a windy day,

when off in the grove huddled in some green darkness
cutting its silver note through the noisy birds
a phoebe repeated over and over its music
that seemed too sad and simple to put in words.

I wonder if there is time for plaintive sorrow,
in a working world, that questions our belief
in what we do today, that says tomorrow
will come to teach us more and more of grief.