Flowers of Spring Upon A Winter’s Day.

Light was the snow; pure, clean and white on this winter day.

A thousand stones stood like old gray sentinels on a hill of unfinished dreams.

Their names were without faces etched with the fine lines of another time.

A cool blanket of white on a northern ridge began to blow obscuring the mind.

I now stood alone in the snowy silence on the hill of one thousand dead.

I traced my finger across the new bronze marker mouthing what it said.

Forgetting now the cold; remembering not the winter and the snow, I cried.

I cried not for the sleeping, but for the flowers of spring which lie upon a winter’s day.

J. Allen Wilson © 2/9/2011