Seven Poem by A.S. Wilson

Maple tree helicopter seeds
fly me back to childhood
whirling through the sky in
martial support of little green army men.
With their poly-resin bazookas and
bent-tip machine guns
they charge vicious snapdragons
and valiant touch-me-nots
that spring apart in kamikaze defense,
flinging their progeny far from danger,
ensuring that not all will perish.

The commander calls his men from
the radio on the back of his kneeling aide
and urges them onward with pistol in hand
toward the lines that are forming,
the battle that is joined as a squadron
of lady bugs enter the fray, their uniforms -
seven symmetrical dots
over blood colored armour.

The battle ended, the heroes mourn
the wounded and destroyed.
Shattered twigs dig shallow graves
to bury corporal what’s-his-name
whose belly crawl couldn’t save him
from cherry bomb land mines
and kneeling rifleman Bravo,
taken out by a gravel barrage.

A kazoo plays taps as the
paper flag lowers.