He lay in the cold behind a mound
of snow
hunkered still just below a sniper's
garret,
upon his shoulder he bore a wet
haversack,
so heavy it almost broke his back,
and spirit
a photo in his breast pocket of a love
back home,
tattered, just like his herringbone
twill fatigues
and just as wet as the snow in which
he lay,
miles away in a foreign foray with all
of its intrigue
he was unshaven with his face lined
and weathered,
too old for a man of his age and in
his prime,
taking fire from a stranger, a man he
never met
and now, with no regret, he'd be a
hero one last time
a gold star now displays prominent
in a window
somewhere back at home where he
was to marry,
and tears stain the letter that gave
notice then,
a son would be coming home again...
but now to bury
John R Tarter
J