Twelve years to the day, I was sitting on the deck watching the family across the street. The mother looked too young to be one, but she was teaching her infant to talk, encouraging her with words of how proud her grandfather would be if she said his name.

 Fourth of July, 2011

From across the street
she’s tanned with curls
in the heart of healthy days
she plays. Her small child is

teetering, tries to speak
and she’s entreated, tell us!
say it, dear. Grampa! Say it.
Yes you are so precious!

Summer houses all in rank
swelling air and families
generations thick
on seven days of rented bliss

the strand strung from end
to end for parties, each
and every child and elder
playing fireworks and time.

Afghanistan is another
regimental battle flag
each hard rock place
stole someone’s dreams.

Stone survivor, he’s still
a shadow by the door
searching to recall
just why the celebration.

Photos like a drill
ream his burning eyes, the bitter
dust, ruined like the stone
and deadly mountains

may never let him sleep
again, instead resumes his watch
she plays, his child and prays
the Fourth comes true.

Learning she is loved
where one is free of tyrants
free to walk a beach
to teach a child to speak

the need is not unique
though we are freer, they
may still walk in gorgeous
valleys hard by mountains

throwback to another time
as ancient as the ruins
death a constant sorrow young
as this year’s barren orchards.