Military Funeral in a High Hills Cemetery

An adulterous generation after all. 
We seek a sign, some old tune or rhyme 
Like Grandfather’s Clock, even as we stand
Among the tumbling chaos of death and birth
That is mountains, woods, rivers 
And the wind’s final word across a grassy knoll. 

The impressive soldiers, tall and straight 
As poplars in their prime 
Make the young widow’s grief bearable 
By tearing out her heart 
And shooting her with blanks. 
Tender and wise, they take the flag 
And fold it day by day, week by week, year
By year until it is compact as a life 
And hand it to her, 
Its stitched colors retrieving 
Her life’s unraveling threads. 

Still in formation like the trees, 
The soldiers march away. 
The last man, in cadence, stoops 
To gather the shell casings 
And return them to her; 
Long, sharp nails now removed from her body
Which I felt shudder like leaves 
Torn from the atoning year 
Flying past our eyes in bright wind 
On a high hill in early spring.