You piled them high at Gettysburg and Arlington.
Shoveled them under and let it work—
“I am the grass,” it said, and covered all.
With time and growth it dulled away your pain.
In New York and Normandy they lie;
In family lots and city plots they wait
For now—for now the grass works.
But two years, ten, and grass will burn with rising sun.
In an instant I will stand there and restore your joy.
And you and they will embrace and say:
“I know your face.
“I left you there.”
But the crosses are now gone.
I cover all.