When Arriving For Battle, Straighten Your Spine, Bring Reinforcements

If the rain made itself visible
as the bold white snow
would we mourn the arrival
of black clouds, the pause of the sun?

Chin up.
Spine straight.
Advice for a tall girl
from her father, a tall man.
Walk with your eyes on the tops
of telephone poles.

Gold leaves fall in clusters
storm frosted grass
quiet as a regiment on maneuvers.

Such a wild move,
dropping out of school,
lying about his age, joining
the Merchant Marine at sixteen
to fight alongside the older boys.

Even the least avengers yield purpose.
When we stop, listen to the rain
give snow and leaves our full attention
will we be surprised by their stories?

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This is definitely a first draft. Some poems arrive pretty much finished. This poem needs stuff: detail, information... It is like a sandwich with thick bread, partially made. There's pleasing thinck fluff on the outside, but nothing in the middle.

Carolee and I saw a poet/memoirist last night who read an interesting piece about her father. We discussed the fact later that neither of us have written much about the men in our lives. It must have stuck with me, because when I sat down to write today, I had no intention of writing about my dad. Writing with out intention--sounds lazy, rule breaking. That's free-writing for you.