E d i t o r 's N o t e
M e m o r i a l D a y 2 0 1 5
Trimmed candles for every mustered mettle
and fractured mother’s window, each cigarette-
seared mortal wound, and every plain white cross.
Folded flags for unbloused boots, crumpled tam
o’shanters, and all those splayed bare knuckles
that toed the hallowed mark.
We wrap each fallen star in stripes who pledged
beyond the last parade, genuflect, then tithe
a hymn for every offered valor.