Ice cycles hung from my nose
hands were stuck to my gun; froze.
All alone in a storm of white
couldn't tell day from night.
Then a warm feeling pierced my heart,
a sniper hit his mark.
Warmth followed by sweat.
Reached for life
but life let go.
So defined is the red blood
in the white snow.
Asking the lord for my mothers presence.
Scenes of life showed me my blessings.
The soldiers blood was warm
in the belly of the trench.
The storm made a good casket.
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Comments about this poem (Cold War by Patrick Dumas )
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