Monday, May 27, 2013
Memorial Day
Gold Star Mother, to you
the honor of a white Cadillac
at the front of the parade.
Your slow steps
escorting the wreath
up the gray slate path
to the war monument
by the public library.
Each clang of the fire engine bell
is the face of someone's son.
Four old soldiers aim
rifles at the blue sky,
a nervous boy plays "Taps."
They rest there for weeks,
your ribbons & fading flowers.
the honor of a white Cadillac
at the front of the parade.
Your slow steps
escorting the wreath
up the gray slate path
to the war monument
by the public library.
Each clang of the fire engine bell
is the face of someone's son.
Four old soldiers aim
rifles at the blue sky,
a nervous boy plays "Taps."
They rest there for weeks,
your ribbons & fading flowers.
Labels: growing up, holidays, poem, war more war
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"If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be." Thomas Jefferson
Posted on Facebook, my brother Jim commented "Memories of hometown." "True" I replied. "But I've never put the name of our hometown in a poem."
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