Snowshoes whisper through reed canary grass, and wolves howl on the far side of the meadow on this northern Minnesota night. The full moon–some say it’s a blue moon–illuminates the snowscape. Bare oak branch shadows seem to dance as trees crack in protest to the 30 below temps. The new year starts with such promise.

Eight years now I’ve been retired. For thirty years, while working, stories from my youth haunted me—everybody who’s been to war has stories, I’ve listened to thousands from the old men who fought in the Good War—and I came to realize that I had to tell mine before I joined those old men. Dawn walks across dew-covered meadows watching days awaken—seasons change, blending with treelines, silently, as deer and geese, squirrels and spiders accepted my presence—awakened urgency to tell those stories.

I began taking writing classes at our local university. As semesters passed, essays accumulated. About the third year, I discovered poetry and a new world—a world of condensed images, actions, senses—a world that explores the moment. Walking my meadows, sitting silently in the treeline notebook in hand, images and long-buried memories pour onto the page. Universal symbols of changing seasons, storms, drought, nature’s design (or lack of it) in watching the food chain at work—deer/wolves, foxes/rabbits, owls/mice, swallows/flies, spiders/moths, and crows and ravens; always the raucous caws of those scavengers—open doors for me.

This past spring the “Healing Wall” came to Bemidji, Minnesota. While it was here some friends and I went to see it, then went to breakfast. Mike said he wished it hadn’t come—it opened old wounds. Jim and Lyle agreed and we talked about who it was healing. I was surprised at their sentiments—I felt the same way but didn’t want to admit it, like a betrayal to those on the Wall. Anyway, I went home and wrote this poem.

After the Funeral

It’s called “The Wall That Heals.” But Robert Frost’s words gnaw:
“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.” Taps and 21 Gun Salutes

echo through wind-blown purple petals from wilted bouquets.
At the service I listen to elegies, worn clichés, old war stories

and know nothing has been learned except we jump higher at the rifle fire.
To the uninitiated, tanks and APC’s are symbols of omnipotence;

today as offered penitence, I’d rather see white doves set free.

Sharing a friend’s anguish, I wonder again how Walls heal as

we turn our backs to black granite. My arm shelters quaking shoulders

as he whispers a prayerful curse — his loss fresh again—

all that’s missing is a hearse. Recalling my nocturnal visit…

I came in dark of night, roles reversed. Stars whispered through powdery mist
and again I saw six river sailors disappear in dawn’s water-sprinkled burst—

others; sniped, accidents, ambushed—fingers gently brushed etched names;

not unlike baby granddaughter’s tears when big sissy’s crushed her heart.

This morning I go home, change clothes, pet the dog,

wander my meadow aimlessly, clean bluebird houses (spring is here),

and remember scattered purple petals blown into the Wall.