All Quiet

Western fields mourn with flowers.
A freezing rain shivers with the grass.
On a quiet Sunday morning,
how many whisper unheard to the wind?
Bleak grey sky, the soft dark earth
swallows all voices and prayers.
The husks of dead trees cast shadows
across the ridges with two lines.
Scars in the dirt call a welcome
in the language of the millions.

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