The Gold Standard
Blue stars on frosted windows,
the weather has turned cold
while the children play
and mother waits by the mailbox
hoping the front doesn’t come to her.
Snow angels on the front lawn,
dressed for filial vision.
We try on smiles for Sunday morning
and later put them away in a drawer,
folded and pressed like we were taught.
Reels bring the news,
family brings the comfort.
Black sedans bring the messengers.
Who will bring the boys home
before we don’t recognize them anymore?
Flowers emerge from new soil,
spring sun coating us all
in a red rose film
so we can pretend
that they never left us.
The newspapers shout the end
and celebration enfolds the country in the streets
as the ships steam into port, bringing them back.
But we stayed home to help mother
turn our blue star to gold.