Walking up Edison Avenue, the short street where I live,

I nod to Mr. Calvin, and say, Good morning, John. He nods.

It is a holiday in November, we are at home from work.

But he works, washing his house windows, responsible,

Industrious, substantiating the kingdom of God on earth.

I look down, looking for something I have not lost.

Memnon, my neighbor, hums, his Egyptian eyes glint,

Standing like a statue in the sun under bare trees.

He will be interested to hear why my screens are off,

The house windows unwashed, the storm windows down cellar,

So I tell him. I've been writing letters. He is interested.

My bursitis continues, yes. I broke my best pipe. Nothing

About me is too trivial for Memnon, and I feel better.

But not good. My wife, who lives in a free gift of grace

In the best possible of two worlds, accepts all neighbors,

And has been for a walk with one named F. Schuyler Mathews.

He is law and prophet on maple, linden, beech, and oak,

Trees that cover Edison Avenue with fallen yellow leaves.

She has come into the house before me, and is re-arranging

Leaves like large handprints of the daily gods-

Our dining-room table is a scatter of different leaves,

Of maple four, the sugar, the Norway, the sycamore, the white ;

Of the oak two; of catalpa, willow, and honey locust, one.

This is this world, the kingdom I was looking for.