Hydrangeas, blue and lavender; one wreath
adorns his casket. Tears ran down few cheeks.
And there, his blade rests neatly in its sheath.
We linger for the parson’s purr – he speaks!
“… an active soldier gone…” and so it goes,
tall tepid words that make one glow or shine
but looking in the mirror, Heaven knows
he was like us a goatskin full of wine.
One splinter lost, no damage to the tree
and it will stand a hundred years or more
a hundred years or more of reveille
for always, always, there’s another war.
To ponder over might – the pen or sword –
a fallen soldier means some other scored.