Arlington

Regiments of white, weathered stones stand in perfect rows.
Snowflakes fall in respectful imitation,
Sneaking their way through the cracked and unworked soil,
Turning every drop of blood to red, earthy dust
And every bullet from lead to stone.

Nausea and fear, like bolts of lightning,
Course out of the bodies, through the ground, to the trees,
Who write and contort in pain.

The soldiers sit atop these gnarled creatures with no leaves,
And gaze out through the hazy day,
Musing on a brick figure:
A tall, straight spear that pierced up through the ground as it grew,
Never to twist and morph as the trees have;
A monument.

At the sight of the obelisk, the soldiers reflect on what was right, important.
Was fascist or democratic?
Was it union or confederate? Red or American?
No one seems to know anymore.
The soldiers idly chat, like in the good old days
(or were they good?).
There is a distant hum,
Drums, or an airplane perhaps.
No matter.
All ideologies fade;
Things are forgotten
(or more fully understood?).

Below, on their graves, lean small wreaths,
Like on Christmas.
Up the hill, on Robert E. Lee’s porch steps,
A political button depicting a black man falls with a clang like a bell’s,
Announcing the hour.