Death Is No Mere Farm Hand Poem by Lewis Eron

Death is no mere farm hand
But an agronomist, an expert,
A planner, a bureaucrat,
God's secretary of Agriculture.
Too busy for us.
Never seen except for photo opps,
Occasional interviews,
Especially during disasters, —
God’s personal observer.

So, we just get to meet the line staff,
Lifers most of them,
Angels counting off their years
Before retirement
Or transfer to a desk job.

Thank God they are often bored,
Work slowly,
Avoid deadlines.
Blessed celestial slackers
Giving us lots of slack
Some of the time

I'd hate to meet a dedicated heavenly servant,
Striving to meet her goal,
Working swiftly, cleanly,
With her new harvester.

Most prefer the old ways:
Hand mowers for bigger jobs,
Clippers to trim the hedges
And cut flowers,
Hands for delicate vegetables,
And garden spades to uproot
The bigger shrubs and bushes.

You can't complain to the staff.
The boss doesn't answer.
But, perhaps, the same crew also
Waters, fertilizes, trims
God’s own Garden.
There is no redundancy in Heaven.