The man in the cherry picker won’t stop at first.
He idles only long enough to shout no, then gooses
his chainsaw and starts it screaming again,
biting into the bare, twisting branches of an oak
in someone’s front yard. He’s middle-aged, and worn,
hardhat dented, and he has a schedule to keep.
But by the time I cross the street to the cemetery
where the family waits, it’s suddenly quiet again.
The shrieking has died. The woodchipper has ceased.
We are able to stand by the grave and grieve.
You can’t get there all at once. Everything takes time.
I say the prayers and we lay the body to rest,
and when I walk back to my car and open the door,
the man in the bucket looks down at me for
one long beat, then yanking on his chainsaw,
turns and resumes his deafening work.