she brings him tea,
a piece of cheese late morn  
for he has been toiling since dawn  
his plane shaving the wood reverently
the old oak speaking, though not complaining,
in a language the man does not understand  
a coughing code for loss, forbearance, acceptance,
redemption, he hopes, for the boys keep coming…
first from Ypres, the Verdun,
now the Marne    

before, he heaved hewn planks
for the hopeful homes, built their pantries
to be filled with the bread, the kind milk  
now the sawn boards are for those who once
watched his labors, but no longer hear the simple
sounds of sanding, sawing
or anything at all  

most of the lads do not come home,
their souls and bodies left to rot on the blood sullied grass  
or buried shallow, naked in the French soil, but all get a fine coffin  
thanks to the carpenter’s wife, whose babe was the first to fall,
who demands for them all, a holy horizontal home to be built  
and, empty or not, placed gently in Anglican ground

They say they'll help you
But they always leave
They promise to fix you
They'll give you all you'll ever need
So you put all your eggs in their basket
But they leave you alone to waste in your casket

A white silk dress
Like snow cascading
To the dusty ground.
A needle ******
The pale arms of
Sleeping Beauty's twin;
Drops of blood
Raining down to land
On her tear-soaked
Satin skirts.
She falls, deep
Into a forever
Enchanting rest from which
She will never wake,
Laid to die in a
Pristine, ****** gown
With the bloodstains
Reflected in the
Casket lining
From her white silk
Dress.