TAPS
Through my kitchen window I could see it begin --
First snow of the season, third year of the War --
Flakes so big and beautiful I wish that I
Could catch a few and preserve them in a jar!
Whirling, swirling, dancing gracefully, gently,
The snowflake ballet is soon forced to the ground
By a snowfall growing much faster and harder;
No more gentle flakes whirling gracefully around!
Still I can see through the fast-falling curtain --
Can see one block north to the banner on high --
To the well-kept National Cemetery
Where men from the Civil and other Wars lie.
I can both see and hear each new burial --
The commands, the rifles' fire, the bugle's farewell.
How many books could be filled with the stories
That only those resting here could tell?
Beneath neat white headstones, row upon row --
They lie together now in a peaceful rest --
The sharply chiseled letters on the headstones
Telling the names of these bravest and best --
While the stars and stripes flies above them each day.
The snowflakes are now spreading a soft white pall
Over the graves of those who've served their country --
Have served and have fought and have given their all.
How many of the men who die in this War
Will be brought back here to be given a plot,
The rifles' salute and the bugle's sad Taps?
It seems so little, in return for such a lot . . . .
Copyright © 1999 Ann Cragg, from the book Ghosts and Echoes.
All rights reserved. Used with the kind permission of the author.
For more works or information: Ann Cragg
