Even if he had made the most beautiful garden, and within the year the wilderness had reclaimed what he took. Even if the weeds grew across it so violently that any wanderer would not suspect themselves of trespassing across a dead man's grave, it would still have been beautiful while it lasted. It would have been worth the toil for him to be able to walk a line to its centre, to stand with in it right now amongst the sea of red blooms, to cast both arms out like a prophet and say, "I have willed you into being. You feel the sun upon your face because I placed you in this field. This field that made my back a broken stem and formed ice in the joints of my hands, and put clouds across my eyes. All of this is for you." In his Field he would stand, and he, like his children, would turn his face up to the sun and sigh, before, soon enough, he lies below them, and it is over.