The Widow-maker

Dim light streaming through thick trees
exploding pulsing, he could
barely breath
Static bursts "Are you ok!"

His torso shifting, bleeding, pinned beneath the widow-maker,
a lichen covered weapon of gnarled spikes,
an ancient cudgel of nature.

Blood coming to the rim of his lips
(He remembers the salty taste)
Like a baby shuffling around a dusty cabin
His brothers and sister, packing him into blankets,
digging the wood out from the snow drift,
stoking the fire.

(He remembers the taste of dirt)
Bucked from a mustang
His chest felt collapsing, lungs gasping
His fathers big hands, twisted and thick
grasping his Pendleton.
"He's as much spirit as you boy!"

(He remembers the pain of fear)
Hunkered in the teetering shell of a landing craft.
Eyes watering, the stench of shit and urine
The repulsion instinct pushing his face to the sky,
His nose sucks in the salty air,
filled with the hot rain of machine gun fire.

(He remembers the smell of pine trees)
A stroll through the woods, seeking lumber for a new cabin.
His own son all grown also seeks to face death with life
curled overhead, face contorted and strange
"Dad, I love you..."

(And he remembers sleep)
Starring into the stars at night.