A Moment's Gift

He dropped in a single, silent, moment
His body slipping out of war, falling
On the muddied ground that would wrap the gift
Of who he was, in earth and hollow shells.
He fell softly calling her name in hopes
That she could catch his life in ivory hands.

A blackened tree reached out with wooden hands
To cradle the fall of youth’s last moments.
His breath, a spindrift of shadowy hopes
Caught by broken branches; reaching, falling.
The staccato of machine gun and shells
Collected; mouth,      eyes,     ears,     an empty gift.

He fell into the tree, his life a gift
To people he never knew with his hands.
He was an idea , an expression, a shell
Caste in ashes and dust, spent in moments
Remembered by someone with tears falling
To be tasted on cracked lips with his hopes.

The tree shivered with the death of his hopes
Dry leafs dancing above his head, a gift
To copper his eyes, like pennies falling.
Parched roots reached toward the blood on his hands
Tracing the moon of his fingers. Moments
Becoming stories. Life in a spent shell.

He waited in the dark muck, blood and shells
Clutching her letter to his lips in hopes
That he could taste her memory, moments
Brushed across his mouth in a tender gift.
He caressed her cheek, his cheek, in stained hands
Tears mixing with blood, holding, and falling.

Whispering with the rising and falling
Of his breath, the tree emptied the shell
Of who he was into its wooden hands.
Holding his dreams and forgotten hopes,
The tree was the bearer of his last gift
Given in closed eyes and frozen moments.

His death         a moment,       his body resting
An unwrapped gift, in the bullets and shells
The letter of hope, falling from his hands.