Black-capped Chickadees and plump Robins
Hop about our empty garden,
picking at strewn seeds, on this day of remembrance.
November gusts draw water from my eyes,
forcing me to walk through their swath.
Like our Lee,
in the eighteen-year-old innocence of his life,
forced to face the swath and flak of our enemy.
Shot down over the Mediterranean,
his remains remain in the sheltered sea.
This November day is dark and mournful,
My little boy chases birds and squirrels into the woods.
They too, have disappeared for the moment,
On this eleventh day, of the eleventh month,
remembering those who fought at the eleventh hour.
Like our Bob, set at the helm of a Sherman Tank.
Fighting Rommel in a phalanx of steel, diesel fuel, and gun powder plumes.
Haunted by a memory of once returning after leave to find his friends had fallen.
The knowledge that it could have been him, but was them.
He came home with a permanent limp.
The leaves have fallen from their trees, and the days will grow darker.
Long winter nights bury the remains of the glories of spring.
My breath billows in the cold air, sending up signals.
Our little man has fallen asleep in my arms,
The birds return to feed in peace.
Written by Bateman-Ezra