The Field
Three boys ran in the tall summer grass,
They were ten, and laughed loudly as they scurried unseen
It was late, near bed time
The boys knew this, and hoped for mothers as the sheltering sky
To be men would take forever to these young scurrying lives
But in the flash of their mothers' eyes:
One boy would go off to war and never return
Another would lose a brother and never be the same
The third would be fine, grow into a man with happiness and fame
But there were those times when he thought of tall summer grass,
Of how the tragedy of youth was woven into his soul
And he too, was never the same