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Our Own Pattern
I walk down this path of ours,
as the moon lights my way
on this path we had made.
I walk across the meadow
falling in love with it once again, as we did so long ago,
when it was just you and I Remembering
As I wander down the beautiful paths
My jeans tight and strait, A dark denim blue hugging my figure
Mys hoes high sleek and jet black as the night, invisible as I walk through the patterned paths
Just a plate of current fashion,
Not a softness anywhere about me,
And as I head back home
I take a seat in the moon light
Wishing on stars that you
were here with me .
The roses and blossoms
flutter in the breeze
as they please.
And I weep;
because as I sit one small flower dropped upon my lap.
And the plashing of water drops
in the small creek
that travels along the meadow-paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened attire
is the softness of a woman
Remembering the times we would , walk along together though the paths Seeing the patterns all around us, Waiting to start our own,but in our hearts we both knew,
that we would have to wait, or that we may never get. . .
a pattern of our own.
The afternoon that your partner showed at my door,
is still my most vivid memory--
"Madam, we regret to inform you that Sgt. Thomas
Died in action March 20, 2010. If it is any consolation he was shot trying
to save a woman and her 4 children.”
The soldiers’ words hit me like fists.
“ Madam?" said the soldier.
"Thank you," I told him.
"The United States Army will help you in any way it can. Sorry for your loss."
The memory all too clear,
all too vivid in my mind as I look at the patterns,
all around me.
And now our pattern will never be complete,
and I will never have another chance to have a family.
In a month you would have been my husband.
In a month, here, in this meadow,
we would have started our own pattern;
He for me, and I for him,
on this seat we would sit.
But, now that is a shattered dream.
Now he is dead.
In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and down
the patterned meadow-paths
The roses and blossoms
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down,
day after day.
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
by each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should lose I am dead,
fighting with other men just like him,
in a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for?