It is the season of the barren trees The gossamer that floats over the damp sod. This is the time when mothers don black dresses Walk across the frozen turf to the gaping womb That awaits their sons.
We stand aloof inventing their grief To suit our souls yet untouched by the ruthless wrench, Watching their silken veils flutter in the wind.
Do not stand, Mother. Sit and let the tears fall in salty streams Across your streaked wearied face, Taste the salt of tears and wail loud Across deaf space to the uncaring trees.
No pain greater than yours On losing your son—to have to offer him To unkind war, the thief that tore him From your breast. What collision will the loss Of your synchronized heartbeats Bring about?
There is no solace, no word, no comfort To take away the gnaw of loss You have encountered.
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