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Wheel of Misfortune?
War's wheel of misfortune spun far too often
I pause in my journey
to the grave of my friend,
to commemorate his birthday
in a mid-December snowfall.
Deeply regretting that there
is nothing here but a
slab of granite
standing at attention
like many others around it
forming sentinels of grief.
no warn handshake
and quiet conversations
of what was and is no more
blurred memories
of times spent together
as dear freinds
now spent forever.
The trees are skeletons
beyond the cemetery gate
coated in white
their limbs weighted
by natures insulation
from the cold of the dead
below them
It is as if the bones,
buried far below,
have pressed their
way outward and
upward to taste ....
once more the sweet air of life.
All is purified
and hidden deep
under a thick blanket
woven time in
a frozen state
but my feet
know the path well.
His stone soon looms
above the thickening drifts,
but windblown snow
obscures all but
a small part
of his epitaph.
His name and the
inscription which once read:
Harold S. Nottingham
was laid to rest here,
born: September 5th, 1951
Died: in Vietnam
January 11th, 1971
forever cherished.
<3 by his Family <3
now reads:
Harold S Not
here
So I turned to go,
whispering "Semper Fi, Harry."
to a long closed chapter
of another time,
cryptically comforting me.
© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III