Flag folded, presented.
Taps, mournful and haunting, seems yet to echo.
Soldiers, M-16s shouldered, march toward camouflaged humvess.

Up the hill,
away from the blue tent,
unmindful of the fine drizzle,
she walks among the granite tombstones, righting fallen flowers.
Alone. Dry-eyed. Young face grief-drawn.

Behind her,
groups of twos and threes straggle
in a broken line
up the hill to parked Lincolns, Cadillacs and SUVs.

At the cemetery's edge, she remembers; wheels,
looks at the gray casket not yet lowered; then turns
toward the mountain scarcely visible in the thickening rain,
her thin shoulders shaking.

Some things we shouldn't see; wish we hadn't.

By Rod Franklin (AMPAW@aol.com)







Drops of Her Voice


Once Upon A November ( 4 Authors )

Haiku: Low Place

The Old Wraparound

A Touch of Her Hand

Farm Stand ( 11 Authors )

Resort By The Sea ( 6 Authors )

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