Veteran's Day

In Flander's Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flander's Fields.

I've never liked the last stanza of this poem, so I'm going to leave it off, although it seems to hang akwardly without a conclusion. I don't believe that we owe more war to the dead. I don't believe that the young men and women coming home maimed in body and soul from war today are holding high the torch that burned at Ypres in 1915. That torch should not be tended.

Wage peace with your breath.

Breath in firemen and rubble
Breath out whole buildings and flocks of
redwing blackbirds.



Breath in terror.
Breath out sleeping children and
freshly mown fields.



Breath in confusion and breath out
maple trees.





Breath in the fallen and breath out
lifelong friendships intact.

Think of chaos as dancing raspberries.
Imagine grief as
The outbreath of beauty or the gesture of
a fish.



I celebrated veteran's day with a hike in the mountains. The snow was fresh and not deep. The sky was overcast but from the ridgeline you could see for miles over crystal limbs of heavy-hanging branches. I spent three hours with an aquaintance who I've known for years but never really spoken to. I came home to a mug of hot tea and the Brandenburg concertos. A good day.