One morning, Zeus sat on his mountain throne
and pondered what would happen if men quit
coming to the oracle, if they stopped
fearing what they’d become if gods’ wrath came.
He paused as they talked less with him alone
and more with one another as they’d sit
in fields grown thick with plenty. His tears dropped
like stones and winter snow, much to his shame.
“But haven’t I brought everything you craved,”
his voice, like thunder, rolled across the land,
“and given it to you!?  Where are you now?
I should have kept you mute!  Kept you enslaved!”
A fat man in his field held up his hand,
“Is that a storm I hear? I’ll rest the plough.”