Tis the morning sun   invites the poppies to grow     in Flanders Field   on row by row   this a poor substitute   I'm afraid   each plot is marked with our unknown   souls   each footrest a mother's heart   we lie there still   as the poppies and dogwood grow   each numbered headstone   is a history onto itself   for our youths were cut short   by gunfire and politicians   the reaper's gift   to us row by row   tis requiem we cannot comprehend   whose valor does not pretend   all who think of us now   row upon immortal row.  (Read Full Post)