March Snow At Arlington


 

The slow air, snow quiet,
salt-white flecks, descending
into this world’s vacancy.
White silence seeping
into the stilled mouths of the dead.

I’m waiting here, for the lost,
the slumbering slain,
to storm their way home;
the sand of their desert,
the snow of their death.

I see now, beneath this earth,
in its obverse darkness,
a line of children, single-file,
each child smartly dressed,
shoes shined brightly
for the first day of school.

Third Wednesday, 2010

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