The Christmas Tree
25 November 2023

He saw a spark of golden color,
Under the trash of unending war.
Seven years old, he was taller,
Than his coat of cloth and tar.

Cold rain turning to hail and snow,
Clung to a leather hat taken.
Frozen remains in a plane unknown,
Debris of battles poorly lost, forsaken.

He had hidden there from the trucks.
Travelling the rutted mud farm road.
Each wore the scars, bent luck,
Assaults by past rifle fire lode.  

Crawling to the piece of brass strip,
Now loosed from the stony gravel.
A small tag was tied with jagged rip.
Scrawled red and green “Merry ….”