November is sweet, sunshine through bare trees, dry brown
      and fungus-free leaves companionably visiting among the
      dead
as I did yesterday our town's small graveyard military dads
      who recently died lie under polished stones embossed
      with actual photos of themselves and their wives
      flowers and plastic totems within a miniature picket fence
      overflowing with the emotions love and grieving of the
      living
beside or not far from simple wafer-thin old moss-covered
      stones on which I could not read the names.
Such peace I realized which may be found around any rock or
      tree has escaped me while I pursue my particular
      happiness and our particular war,
and such a blessing awaits me, too.