It’s like the young man sent off to war—
Letters will be written home:
Read and re-read.
Creases in the paper grow worn
like father’s farm hands.
Life is thin.
The news is not good—
They are at the front lines:
it rained for sixteen days straight,
he’s sick with fever;
an undiagnosed illness in camp—
He tells of longing for mom’s canned peaches
and the familiar front porch.
Questions hang in the air like fog—
Descend and envelop the mind and heart.
If he doesn’t return—
The tone is tender:
But words are poor carriers
of what needs arms and breath to deliver.
Sis should have my old rocking horse to give to Jenny—
let Jenny know Uncle JT still has the magic coin we found together.
I’m at peace if it should end this way.