The Peach Orchard
Oh such a spring in sixty-three,
the orchard there for miles they'd see,
light shades of pink that tinged the clouds
on blossoms where the bees would crowd
and dance from tree to tree.
The sun splashed yellow all around,
young lovers kissed outside the town
beneath the copse of trees.
The rumble of a summer storm
disguised the din of truth forlorn
as thousands marched this summer day;
our nation's sons in blue and gray,
like bees of spring they swarmed.
But not for life and not for play,
instead a pyrrhic death ballet -
the worst that man performs.
The orchard where they struck was shattered,
both limb of man and tree were scattered;
the rubble of their hate was strewn
where once a fruit of peace was grown -
blood and life was splattered.
But in these fields a seed was sewn
and grows to bear a truth that's known,
nourishing what matters.
The tears that drip like autumn leaves
shed for the dead and those they freed
are buried by first winter's fall
and mourned by coyote's lonely call,
now joined by mother's pleas.
While there a girl with tattered shawl
sobs for her love lost in the brawl
beneath the copse of trees ...
(One of the many battles fought on day two at Gettysburg)
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