The Dig

I am prey to the unyielding sun
Here in this open field
Void of shade
Holding precious pieces
Untouched for one hundred and forty years
Two hundred acres of Virginia farmland
Beneath my feet
Where strong men screamed
Where suffering defied description
And the soil looked as if it had rained blood

A soldier rips the Eagle breastplate
From his chest
And throws it to the ground
Where I am standing
Here in the sweltering heat
Of a calm June afternoon
I pull it from it's resting place
No longer shining
One hundred and forty years removed from the pounding heart
Beneath it

Lost in VanGogh

In shallow pools of reflected thought
A child's face,
Sad and transparent,
Floats above a wheatfield,
Thick in bright yellow
Amidst a flock of still crow.
A shadow dressed in tattered pants
And a paint-stained shirt
Brings a smile of recognition
To this lost child's face,
Then fades with a sudden gust of wind.
The crow take flight,
The wheat sway into consciousness;
Our hearts numb with the beauty of his pain.