Micropoetry
A poem
they buried me in foreign soil,
worlds away from home’s meadows,
just a boy ripped from mother’s arms
into the maw of thunder.
i learned quickly
how we dig our own graves.
in this war, night’s inky abyss
is a haunting contrast
to starlight over
quiet brooks.
when the blade
at last found my heart,
i hoped it was the plow’s kind turn,
but there is no harvest here,
just seeds returning to the loamy earth.
in this makeshift cemetery,
mounded by the fallen,
i am granted peace.
no trumpet’s call
can part me
from this repose.
i am home
in Flanders fields
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