It’s Sunday morning
in the spring –
light’s dawning,
birds are singing –
singing widow songs
and lost laments
for broken soldiers
in fire-torn tents.
Death is not the curse of the dying,
for in their sweet-shadowed slumber,
the dead are already blessed –
soft earth’s the heart of surrender,
the sky above?
the promise of forever –
The wind blows gently
through the tall grass
on the soft hills
of remember
Richard Stokes is a retired teacher who has lived in several regions of the United States, in West Africa, and in China. In his writing, he strives for diversity of voice, theme, and style.
