they gather along black granite,
within the National Mall's central axis,
along side stainless steel men,
beside a wreath before white marble
sarcophagus atop a hill,
and in the shadow of the Argonne Cross
to remember,
to remember the shores of Omaha and Utah,
the sands along Iwo Jima,
the wheat fields at Gettysburg and Antietam,
to remember the Arizona,
the faces in the trenches of France,
the ones on the mountain in Afghanistan,
and in the heat driven desert of Ramadi, Iraq,
they gather with red poppies on their lapels,
flags saluting at half mast,
and sounds of taps that echo through the day,
with words spoken in small towns
and wreaths set out,
in thanks,
giving gratitude to those
who wear the uniform,
to acknowledge the sacrifice and service,
that was written with a blank check
from the bank of their lives
payable for all who live free.