Have you ever
cried for a fallen soldier,
seen the blood trickle from his wounds like a never ending stream,
as his face goes pale white–ice cold, eyes staring into the open sky;
as his life spills on the ground like an endless puddle of death?
Seen the faces of the family members as they hear the knock on the door,
the one they have been dreading.
their loved one is finally coming home
but in a box, cold, and dead never the same.

I have cried for that soldier
I have imagine their last minutes, seconds,
as his chest sinks down for the last time, never to rise again.
I have imagined his family
the ones who never got to say good bye,
tears streaming from their faces.
The water drops glistening in the sun
as sadness and death hangs heavy in the air.

Although the sun may filter
Through the leaves of sapling trees,
To alight upon smooth stone,
And melded steel,
None of its fire will touch this place again.

The souls that line these paths,
Have ended their own journeys,
In a chaotic order,
Like a bird that suddenly
Finds it cannot fly
And instead falls.

The flames that used to flicker,
Are extinguished.
Now their names are memories,
Carved in cool steel,
Traced by trembling fingers,
Memorized by mournful green eyes.
Every lonely slip of stone
The only companion to gravel, sky, and water.

The wind blows cool,
A soft, silent vigilant,
Sweeping across the contrast
Of light and dark ,
Gracing the building,
Revealing a phoenix,
Winding around the sloping stone,
And melded steel,
Rustling past those still grasping light.

As a three year old,
everything was a mystery.
I didn’t know of the
innocent victims.

Blurry memories
show the surrealness.
Streets were empty,
everyone was hiding,
playing a giant game of hide and seek.
I did not understand.

Now, I understand.
Heavy wounds
left deep scars on our country.

Now, I understand:
at the 9/11 memorial
with dispersed granite benches
one name
inscribed on each
a victim who lost a life.

This is a place for their families to grieve,
a place to remember,
a place that made me understand the tragedy of 9/11.

Silence ringing,
the crunch of gravel bites the air.
I hear the hum
of a little light bulb,
whose job is to illuminate the world
from underneath a wing.
How many of these wings
is a parent
or a child
who was on the plane?

My gaze focuses
not upon the Pentagon’s facade,
lighter on impact;
not upon the plaque
that reads the names of death,
but upon a single wing.
It spreads from the ground,
stretching toward the sky,
humming and glowing with that
little light bulb.

I am the letter,
the giver,
the receiver.

I receive praise
higher than mountain tops
and give insight
to those lost in darkness.

A young man approached my home.
A quiet, quaint,
and solemn home
Along a gleaming black wall of rest and conscience.

In his face I see the brightness of sorrow
The wonder in loss
and the fantasy of memory

His heart interprets my words,
through a series of meaningful beats.
Rhythm takes over what he thought he knew.
The melody of understanding,
becomes clear

Wisdom etched deep into his mindful eyes
They stare back at me,
glued onto the words,
and won’t let go.

I am the letter that speaks–
To the dead and to you