I pause in my journey
to the grave of my friend,
to commemorate his birthday
in a mid-December snowfall.
The trees are skeletons
beyond the gate
coated in white.
It is as if the bones,
buried far below,
have pressed their
way outward to taste
the sweet air of life.
All is purified
and hidden deep
under a thick blanket
woven by mother nature,
but my feet
know the path well.
His stone soon looms
above the thickening drifts,
and windblown snow
obscures all but part
of his epitaph.
His name and
inscription which read:
Harold S. Nottingham
was laid to rest here,
born: September 5th, 1951
Died: in Vietnam
January 11th, 1971
and forever cherished.
now reads:
Harold S Not
here
So I turned to go
whispering softly,
"Semper Fi, Harry."
to a long closed chapter
of another time,
it's last words
cryptically
comforting me.
Bronze trophy winner
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