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July Tribute
by
Amy Treadwell |
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I'm sure he would have winked, seeing us
Drop our plans, fly cross country, snap up rental cars,
Pack mules, mopeds, anything
Heading west.
Perhaps he saw the dust plumes rise:
Our modern-day wagon train
Turning off the blacktop onto gravel,
His smile as wide as sunrise on the plains.
He was never much for travel,
Settling at the edge of No-Man's Land,
Perhaps still returning from his own journey,
To free Europe, a one-way ticket but
For the grace of God and a German soldier,
A flash of white phosphorus,
A bullet he hoped had gone astray.
No wonder he'd built a home out west,
Claiming a wind-swept plain,
Land no one would take,
And settled into the trenches against
Drought and age and wind.
Even as winter claimed his hair and froze his joints,
He kept a bit of July in his eyes.
"The middle of nowhere?" he'd say. "Pshaw!
This is the hub." He had the last laugh.
He chose to play his trump On the nation's birthday
Complete with fireworks.
Imagine the gleam in his eye,
Gathering his scattered seeds
For one last golden harvest.
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--Submitted by Amy Treadwell on 2011-07-08.
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