Two old Navajo
on a bench
changing slowly
with the leaves
of Spring and Light
upon the green
and scenes of life.
Vets of Nam
overnight
beneath the bridge
cold
before another day
waiting on the care,
the VA share of hope,
a trial to bear
of consequence
of long ago,
of war and loss,
a people's cost
in shards of fate,
taken, broken, like
a shattered vase
from a pale hand,
leaving pieces
on that bench
beneath the trees
and fortune's themes.
They liked my dog
and so we spoke
of Shonto and Kayenta,
of Agent Orange
and Parkinson's
and history's disguise,
and then the shade
of Cottonwoods
touched the handshake
of good-by.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem