"Barn"  Copyright 2000  J. N. Foster


The white Army blanket of snow
Winds between stones,

Drifting to the base of some
As though those named needed pillows.

The kaddish, on crow's wings,
Clears the trees,

And we can lift our heads,
Leave the graveside-and Death,

Wearing flesh and gloves,

Gathering its purple burgee
From all our cars.

Night comes and the windows turn black.
Our loved ones sleep beneath stars

-and they are the scouts again,

For whom backdoors were left unlocked,
For whom a light was left on

Should they hear a noise,
Should they ever fear.

Copyright 2000  James Reidel
All Rights Reserved

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