September

 It was in the clove of seasons, 

the flowers were stained.

The grass around was wet,

from the night when it rained.

A tombstone now stands,

where the bleeding tree once stood.

People come and grieve,

over the fallen soldier that could.

Speaking softly the names of our dead, 

the voices are hushed.

Hovering the hero's headstone,

up in the leaves a silvery dust.

Rocking back and forth like an empty cradle,

the flag beside him waves.

The last graveyard flowers blooming,

over the body of the brave.

Murdered in battle,

his song seems to die.

Now the crying people come,

to salute and say goodbye.

-Imagery Poem (Imagery derived from The Scarlet Ibis)