Autumn Day 1983
The flag’s half-mast for our boys over there,
gray clouds slump in the sky.
October leaves fallen, brown on the ground,
now it’s your turn to die
in a Maryland hospital treating vets
with your type of disease.
I had hope; now it’s hopeless, you’re too far gone,
they say a matter of weeks.
I seem to remember seeing you last,
driving your bakery van.
Young, always smiling (how memory works!),
uncle, friend, equestrian.
We nephews had fun on your wedding day,
making faces, throwing rice.
Now you’re married, but dying; I’m grieving alone,
and everyone’s words sound so nice.
I’m powerless to stop it, come what may,
to write is all I can do,
and let my thoughts run from Lebanon to
Bethesda, cancer, and you.
Wes Carrington has published haiku in Moonstone Press’ “Haiku Day 2023” anthology, and was recently named one of two adult winners in the “rhyming” category of Fairfax County, Virginia’s “Poetic Musings” contest. He has a loving spouse, three great kids, and two cats who will not stay off the table.
Grand Little Things 