Wreathes Across America

The trees are naked; the wind is blowing.

Buses arrive and the crowd is growing.

Mittens and parkas say it’s December.

What’s in common is that we remember.

Countless stones in every direction.

In silence I stand, quiet reflection.

They fulfilled their vow to serve and protect.

Now it’s my turn to pay my respects.

Veterans are laid here, regardless of race

as bagpipes ring out with “Amazing Grace.”

Without warning, emotions are stirred.

As the bugler steps forward, “Taps” can be heard.

Directions are given; the crowd will disperse.

A widow takes a kerchief out of her purse.

She walks toward the section where her husband lies.

Despite her best efforts she breaks down and cries.

I’m given a wreath; as I walk, I’m nervous.

Place it at a headstone; say, “Thanks for your service.”

In less than an hour all the wreaths were laid,

sixty minutes of my life that I wouldn’t trade.

As I stand on a hill, I see the work that we’ve done.

Can’t help but wish God would send down some sun.

Though the gesture is small, I shall not forget

the freedom I have, thanks to a vet.