His Weed Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

It was a balmy night,
the soldiers had come home,
the war fought for the geezers
by the young, the beautiful,
was done.There would be strife,
and famine, endless queues
where bloodshot eyes would beg
for just a chunk of bread,
or fatback from the front,
last minute rations pried from farms
to give an extra boost to troops
whose age could be determined
on the fingers of two hands.
He'd thought about it ever since
he carried home the shame,
of cowardice while facing death,
four bullets had been saved
inside his Walther, they would do.
He'd find a lonely spot deep
in the forest where he'd played
while young and it felt right
to end it all among sweet memories.

He checked his weapon then
and felt the changed terrain,
his foot had stepped on moss,
it felt like home, he stopped to see.

There were a hundred flowers,
they occupied a meadows fringe,
well shielded from the winds by weeds.
He feasted tired eyes and bent to touch.
They were just flowers, they would be
and stay after he'd done the ugly deed.

He caught a sudden move, it was a weed,
strange, out of place amidst the crowned,
but it was full of life, of quiet class
though nothing special could be seen
by human eyes, it was a weed.

He sat, for reasons other than are known,
until the morning sun demanded that he sneeze.
He could not leave the pretty weed, where it had grown
and there were sparkles from the dew drops in the breeze.