A young man’s arms
will never find his granddaughter’s embrace.
He knew his desire
to be of service, he knew his mates,
he saw Verdun, such as it was,
he briefly knew a shell,
and not much more remains to tell.
Except our story: to preach his excellence
in our freedom, to watch parades
pass by the battlefield.
But that’s our story, not his. A man’s unfolding,
generative life, the wife not found,
the rest not won, the meaning-making scarce begun,
and the granddaughter, whose peerless face
and tiny hands, outstretched towards the old man,
outstretched towards a world of love,
wait forever at Verdun.