Seared into my great-great- grandfather Captain Abraham’s memory,
a battle he fought with long dead enemies.
Curious world dissolving into red Georgia clay,
dust rising up with his history’s burden, a bitter cup.
There is no alibi strewn on the forest floor beneath twigs, weeds, rotten logs.
Footsteps of ghosts dash and dart among leaves and retreating shadows.
His hand lifts up on that far away day on that battlefield, his blue eyes scour the broken world.
Nothing, nothing left, now, except bones beneath that patch of holy ground.
Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2022