She stands
In an empty field, facing east,
Her solitary shadow growing long.
Around her is this peaceful place, silent;
Only wind against her face,
Drifting across The plains.
Then a chill brushes past her cheek…
She feels
This presence in her spine and
She stiffens.
It is just a current of the season,
Mingled with the late sun on her shoulder;
But the warmth and the cold sometimes conflict.
…..The chill reminds her of his absence….
This place is quiet, only a whisper.
She hears
The pulse of her blood quicken,
Its course inside her thickens.
The atmosphere shifts,
Eyes widen, as she faces the horizon.
She is set like flint before a restless world.
Her wide blue eyes water, her heart
Pounding in strained desire.
This steady, steeled daughter of America
Longs to cast a strong line of her love,
To the rock of her life,
Across the storming sea, so far away…
To that place of horrified warriors:
Shrieking shrapnel shreds obliterated oblivion.
The air trembles as the shock wave rips the ether,
Violently rent asunder.
Littered remains rotting in the midst of the fury;
Good men reduced to the ragged riot of raw fear.
Gaunt, ravenous Death commands the field of battle as the machines of War rumble on, so far away….
She struggles
To join her failing courage with his
Torch-tested bravery – and to go the
Distance.
If she could pull him out of that turbulent tide, cast him her line.
To rescue him from the gaping grasp of Danger.
To see him home from his struggle, soothing his scars,
Calming the calamity in his ears and to steady his heart.
To make them whole again,
Together in this peaceful place.
But now the gears of history are churning
More human fodder between its wheels,
Withering wreckage in its wake.
So many lost in that foreign land, all
Split apart at the atoms.
All fallen Adams. Paradise lost…
And yet, still (and silently) found, for these
Fallen defenders. As they depart,
Leaving this lost and hopeless place…
Drifting towards a distant field of
Sun-kissed wheat, now fields of lush
Green harmony in bird song,
Bees buzzing, and mild breezes.
Fertile plains stretching and
Flowing hills rolling into the azure distance
Of never ending creation,
All mingled in light,
unspoiled by the conflict of the world
Left behind.
For there is no conflict, now,
In these currents of the season –
Between the warmth and the cold...
Brushing past her tear-dappled cheek.
Written for those of the Greatest Generation. A photo that I felt symbolizes aspects of this poem: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10210568523345306&set=a.10208174166607884.1073741828.1113041505&type=3&theater
