The Old Home Place

Fields of grass surround the old home place. 
I walk silently around the place, 
Careful not to disturb souls from days gone by. 

I sit on the steps that have long rested.  

In a field, the image of a child 
Goes back and forth searching for 
The home that will never be again.

What drew me to this place? 
I stand up, then step quietly away.

Early One Morning

I lay dying on the battlefield 
Early one morning.

The skies were grey with clouds.
A cool breeze blew into my face. 
 
I could feel the moisture in the air.  
I smelled the powder of explosives, 
And there was no sound.

As the life went out of me, 
I had thoughts of home.

I remembered the same type Mornings 
In my little town. Oh, how I loved the 
Mornings, some bright and sunny,
Others just like this day —
Quiet and cool.

I then looked down as a bayonet 
Pierced the depths of my guts, and
 
I knew it was a good morning to die.

The Spirit Tree

I first saw the Spirit Tree outside my window.  
My Grandfather’s Spirit was living in the stark, 
bare, branches of a huge white oak.  

The gentle swaying of the branches in the cool air 
spoke quietly of simple things in life.  

Things which belong to the heart; 
things which death can not take away.

At the Great Divide

See yesterday’s children, dressed in white, 
Held by Mothers tight, in pictures of old
Hanging on walls of restaurants.
  
Their Mothers wouldn’t have liked that—
Preferring that their images be held close
To heart by relatives who had passed them along
With care to display on their fireplace mantels.  

Precious children dressed in white; now, 
They too, are at the Great Divide, and 
Once again at their Mother’s side.  

Someday your baby pictures will hang 
Above the tables in restaurants — and, 
Yesterday’s child will be you.
 
Then your Mother will hold you tight 
At the Great Divide.