these long days...

War-poxed boots had yet to be exchanged,
soles in virgin grasses, vines to shrapnel knees.
hardened fingertips prodding to dirt,
seedlings take root like tiny digits.

sprawled and scratching onto the place
where the old days met the new.
as the world burped and chortled
like the old willys brought back to life

with a can of 5 cent cola to the battery
leaving it all behind in the rear view.
now the grass grows too tall
painted trees chip their white

like beads of snow in the
dog days of september.
the days dust over
the birds find their feeders

once filled with bounty
are now empty
as they’ve been all these years
you scream into the scenery

knowing full well that he
cannot hear you
“I just want to be with you.”
the threshold answers

that it is not your time
to stand with the statues
you are but clay
built with the fingerprints

of hands who have wished
you both ill and well

for only those
whose lives ended
may live