EMPTY battlefields keep their phantoms. Grass crawls over old gun wheels And a nodding Canada thistle flings a purple Into the summer's southwest wind, Wrapping a root in the rust of a bayonet, Reaching a blossom in rust of shrapnel. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE BEING AS MEMORY by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE WOMEN WITH FABLED HAIR by MADELINE DEFREES SELF-ANALYSIS by DAVID IGNATOW MATE (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO ABRAHAM LINCOLN by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |