We buried, with pomp and tenderness,
the young man felled in Afghanistan.
A senator attended, but didn’t speak.
Snow fell, wind chilled. Expecting
another Ice Age, we were surprised
by spring; not the first time, nor last.
Crocuses popped through, and gazed
about themselves in amazement—
at the air, the sunlight, the spectators.
Geese flung themselves across the sky,
nonplussed by the return…home.
So this is where instinct gets us!
Trees broke out like adolescents, just
in green. They did not blush to be
noticed, as they do each autumn.
We were confused by the crocuses,
the homecoming geese, every tree
in bud—-because Taps was playing.