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Soldiers' Last Summer

by Carol Desjarlais
Season clouds up my windowpane
Hides the hunter and forest
Hands a frosted towel
To the blossoms and bushes
Until they blush and bow
Out and under the front stoop
A few green sprigs of brave
Pretend to hide from the brush
With death and dare
To hold the fort and fail
Come morning like sad soldiers
Are strewn against the solid sod
Ice shattered monuments for their heads.

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Copyright © 2003 by Carol Desjarlais. All rights reserved.