i strain to understand
but love all the more
the hill where the soldiers are buried
within earshot of the steel rails,
the trail to market across the broad
fields of winneshiek’s prairie,
his daily walk now the dusty roads i drive.

tell me stories about a hero's death,
rewarded sleep deep in sacred ground,
and how dying is the easiest of things
for even the faint of heart can be heroric
and i will be as stubborn as a cartridge pouch.

i fail to understand,
calling to mind
past bad predictions of better futures,
cursing and excusing war
and the ancient virtue of how to die.
nobody makes songs of mangled limbs
and expect the young to answer
for that they must sing of glorious sacrifice
to stir the patriot as god's own will.

across the tops of austere military headstone
i look to the north toward the valley of bekaaniba,
as a black sparrow hawk test the thermals
nothing escaping its sharp eye,
nothing that crawls or walks or makes war.

while below in bright afternoon light and easy breeze
surrendering to the smell of earth, farm,
freshly mown grass and hyssop,
i stand to pay homage
and wonder.

i strain to understand
but love them all the more.