Morning comes slowly into the haze
of fires and fog intermingling against
a backdrop of forest and hill.
Death sleeps..

Tinkle of tin on spoon awakes the
aroma of stirred grounds laced with
copious heaps of sugar...the edge
to kill stirs the bowels...

The twinkle of stars through thin
openings lend a false sense of haven
as the roll of iron shod wheels bring
to bear the black round death, the
chain that gives no quarter and
apologizes not to friend or foe.

Fall of ‘63 and blue meets gray
as boys become men or die in
a hail of steel and lead. Moans
will drown the burst of cannon fire
as shrieks chill the bone and bring
the shiver to a neck’s nape.

Reap the field of war, reap the field of corn
reap the field afar as soldiers stand and mourn.