Appomattox

I feel both weariness and relief

at the mere mention of this place –

the desperate struggles,

the losses,

the hard-fought battles

when the air was filled with smoke

and my stomach tight

with only yesterday’s hardtack

to fuel my body.

There is a dream if I can find it –

maybe I saw it scattered on the ground – 

but my, how dreams evaporate

when brother fights against brother.

Caught between the will to go on

and the urge to turn back,

I want nothing more than to hear

the frogs along the creek bank

and the crickets in the field

the way they sang my day

to an end

as I sat on the back steps.

At Appomattox

the fighting stops.

My body is glad for the reprieve

but my mind races on –

where is that dream,

The one we held to?

Generations pass.

The frogs along the creek bank

and the crickets at night

mend my soul over time

until I can find the dream –  

the one that moved us all

to lay down our arms,

to build houses on tree lined streets,

to buy a snow cone at the ball park.

Then comes the trumpet sound

from over the hill.

Frantic cries that the enemy is at the gate,

accusations left and right,

brother fighting against brother,

households divided,

anger over Critical Race Theory,

and battle cries in resistance to vaccinations.

I walk out to the back steps,

listen for the crickets,

and long for Appomattox.

 - Charles Kinnaird