Graves are for decorating
on this first of summer’s weekends,
surrounding them with ceremonies handed down
by sagging-waisted, sweat-stained-hatted vets with flags,
assorted members of the village band strategically placed
to render Taps from haunting hidden spots among the yew trees,
and the local Boy Scout Troop – Grave decorated, Sir! –
standing back at full attention from piercing flags
into the head of every hallowed resting place,
young voices straining at the stresses of their somber role.
Such moments in the slanting early sunlight make sweet
the memory of things that never should have been,
blurring across years deep lines of pain
not meant to be forgot. These gallant dead deserve
all honor and full gratitude, yet would not wish
our worship of the way in which they died,
the insanity that laid them in this green and lovely place.
Meditating – Memorial Day
