It
must have taken hours to bring them
to this January woods, set one behind
each tree: yellow, blue and rose lamps
lighting
brown, black and gray silhouettes
like tall soldiers. And their guns, their bayonets
and the colors of their dying.
But
first this bloom across snow
this flush on the dried prairie,
cider spraying the air.
Together
their fires burn low,
smoke darkening glass shades,
each wick adding an inch of coal
while
the miraculous colors rise
into heavenly battlegrounds
lined with pastel armies.
One
by one the lamps retreat
from hickory, oak and maple
from raspberry, peach and plum
from
oil, kerosene and wax
from clover, buttercup and violet
to calico, leather and wool.
The
world is a cold room
crowded with dead soldiers.
It is hard to see their faces.
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