SWEET THE REAPING

   by Dick Bakken


Mama died May 21,
poor darling. I was out
on the power mower crying
when a full chorus swept
around me, welcoming her over
in seven harmonies of
“Amazing Grace” above
roar of the scythes.
I stumbled in to tell Rod
and our phone was echoing.
Wanda is gone. Yes
at my moment. I’d like
to hurry you a photo by Rod
out the big window only
a few roar-bys before,
me astride those scythes—my
white pollen scarf flowing
back to mask a shadow
ahold behind, my face wakened
into prickles in the breeze,
love cascading my cheeks, lips
open, but like Mama’s choir,
all that grass flashing up beyond
me—it has vanished.