You, my friend, who died in battle,
can’t remember
How your breath became a rattle,
then, more slender,
Changed to prayer. What syllables
were left to say,
What could be brought to mind, what bales
of fragrant hay
Uplifted from your father’s field?
But you were done
With gathering; another yield
had just begun.
—Jared Carter
Image by Wellcome Images licensed via Creative Commons. Image cropped.
