RECIPIENT OF THAT WHICH IS
Rising from the snow where I've lain on my back
To fly like a child from the impression of angel wings,
The day wraps me in its care...arms adorned with snow,
Bemittened on a typical St. Patrick's Day in Colorado.
Safe in my personal cocoon I've tried to escape
The black and white collapse of thoughts about this war...
A flag in the wind eaten from its pole in an endless
Reunion of days I never wanted or asked for.
All of your flags were sewn with bravery colored like
Grade school maps of a country you'd never seen
Until the one in which eternity united you
To a hero's grave. As sure as each minute passing
Makes impossible the fulfillment of our dreams,
There remains a lingering thought I wish I could
Un-remember...a kiss I had imagined would come again
And again to touch my waiting lips.
Deep inside a heart that used to beat,
The war has eaten a hole in which I've had to bury you.
I lie down in fields of white to grieve and leave behind
The corpse of one solitary snow angel without her wings.
~~
By Sharon Peeples
© 2008 Sharon Peeples
(All rights reserved)
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