A single farmer scythes to make hay 
While the sun shines, the viewer hears 
Ssshing sounds hard at work hewing down 
The tall dry grass beside a new house, 
Nothing more than a temporary home
  
For a family in transition to long years 
Of unsettling rootlessness, landlocked
Until they get glimpses of the ocean— 
But framed permanently on the wall 
The grim reaper goes about his scything
  
Long grass is the enemy of new homes 
Not far from diminishing orchards 
In nascent, unpaved suburbs, with 
A scythe blade that never needs sharpening.