Children lay quiet and still in their beds,
their aching bellies fighting a war within
and their heads dreaming of more than
dry bread.

Men, fathers and sons, sleep under a blanket of stars
in a place far from home. Their eyes are laden
with death and fire and their newfound scars.

Women at home, wrought with fear,
When is he coming home? Will he
come home?
Clasping their hands and fighting off tears

For the sake of the children. She irons
her shirts,
folds her slacks, shines her shoes and ties her hair.
But first she takes a moment to breathe
and bury the hurt.

Loss is palpable in every facet of being,
from aching bellies to anxious minds,
to death-laden eyes that see without seeing.

Loss is not an end or a means to stop living,
though often harsh, cold, unforgiving.
Loss is but a mere pause in the song
A moment of quiet and a moving along.