The white shocked old man,
Head slightly bowed,
In his wheel chair in the sun room,
Not knowing why or how.
He squints while watching snowflakes,
A memory takes his mind,
Of long forgotten carnage
And an orange he shared.
The squint relaxes as he fixes
On the smile of her foreign face,
His fingers trace the orange,
Imagining again that time and place.
She was so sweet, how could he know
She was Cong, not one of his,
Still knowing, he shared his orange
Of that carnage time.
He could be Whistler’s Father,
Not the old soldier that you see,
As he watches the drifting snowflakes
Thinking of another winter time.
© By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)