It is the harvest and I should be reaping the rewards for
my efforts.
I sit here instead looking out over a field of silent corn tassels
with their fine silk hairs swaying in the breeze.
Only the occasional call of a crow interrupts my solitude as I search my memories for the sound of a basketball bouncing against the barn doors.
Those were simpler times when joy reverberated in this yard.
Glory was found in sports as my sons and their friends strutted like proud cocks with every score.
Now I sit here like a spiritless horse in a corral staring out over the field.
A treasured collection of silent golden tassels is standing in rows for review.
Proud and straight they stand at attention undisturbed by the autumn breeze.
There never was a moment of doubt when that proud group enlisted,
answering their country's call.
Young men and woman, really boys and girls anxious to do their part.
My legacy, the hope of the future now a new crop of fodder.
The fires that were August cooled and three times they knocked at my door, each announcing another name.
Now like a row of corn on my mantle their tassels are displayed.
It's fall and the crop is ready for harvest,
But there will be no gathering.
I sit here instead staring out over my field
of silent golden tassels all in a row.