Trapped in a war zone, Christmas truce betrayed,
a collateral child grows up afraid.
I still see his fingers, her throat. I pray
my impotent rage dissipates one day.
The mother’s job is to protect the son.
She said I’m the reason she wouldn’t run.
She fought back, then soothed his amputee’s fears.
She won. Mom outlived Dad by eighteen years.
Spring rejuvenates. Bitter lightning burns,
blackens fragile landscapes, blocks my return.
Flames devour fools who keep old fights alive.
Listen for peepers; let foul embers die.
How much I hold reflects how much I feel.
Please accept my damage so I can heal.
MIke Meyers is a retired geologist who lives with his bride of forty three years in western New York with their two golden doodles.
