In the wake of that machine, the cutgrass smell
of plentitude and contentment floods the senses,

overcoming its victims—even those who have lost
their fathers and mothers look up from their grief

and the young awaken to the glint and surge,
broken clouds rush above the distant fields and hills,

a child’s lungs fill as she soars swing’s pendulum
to where she can see the curvature of the horizon.

Along the tree-lined aisles of the cemetery
those family members who do the tending,

who draw up jugs of water from the standpipe,
are surprised to find themselves no longer dogged

by their sadness.  There is nothing to fear—
too much has become familiar.