Grandfather War

Little drummer boy,
With your stolen shoes and tiny hands,
A fault-line crevice laying siege to your boyish face.

Mother has forgotten the uniform cloth, red and blue,
That she wove for you last summer,
With gunpowder trim and musket balls for buttons.

But here you are, with your ironclad lips and shelled-out eyes,
Dusty skin growing grayer with the sky,
Each flitting moment another tear in the surface of our sheepskin drum,
The one Grandmother made by the fire last winter, clean and white.

And here you lie in the tall night grass,
That was so soft when you father planted it last spring.
Here you lie with your tiny hands folded,
Your silent chest a battlefield map, your hair the straw of army cots,
Your little drum laid out by your side.

You once played so sweet,
But now, only Grandfather War can remind you.