Sunday Afternoon


  • God
  • ,
  • America

    Sunday Afternoon

    Sitting underneath the big tree,
    In our front yard,
    Listening only to the wind,
    It's a quiet day,
    Frankly, I like it that way,

    I remember this time last year,
    You were here,
    Playing catch with our little boy,
    My two best men ever,

    But, you got called away,
    I cried,
    Begged you not to go,
    But, I knew you had to leave,
    You had a promise to live up to,

    You wrote me every chance you got,
    I still have those letters,
    The stories you told me,
    Still send chills up my spine,
    I prayed for you every night,

    And, then no letters came for such a long time,
    I got scared,
    Our neighbor had just lost her son,
    I worried I'd get the next visit,
    I prayed even harder,

    God heard me,
    But, I didn't get the answer I wanted,
    Three weeks after our neighbor,
    I got the visit I so dreaded,
    What am I going to do?

    It's been a year,
    And, not a day goes by when I don't miss you,
    You were my best friend,
    My lover, our son's father,
    I hope you're at peace whereever you are now,

    Sitting underneath the tree,
    I shed tears,
    Look up to the sky,
    Feel your love,
    I know you're with me,

    But, I still miss you so,
    I get up to go inside,
    Our son wants to play,
    I see him in you everyday,
    That is what keeps me going,

    I hope he turns out just like you,
    And true right to the very end.

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    Poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history.

    Plato (BC 427-BC 347) Greek philosopher.

    CarissaMarie’s Poems (27)

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