THE PERFECT FIELDS OF FREDERICKSBURG
by Larry Kaplan

The mower cuts the lower field,
The grass grows slow this year.
Still, every week, all summer long
I see that mower here.
Around the fields of Fredericksburg,
In this fair morning light,
A place we call a monument
Straight lines up Marye's Heights.

A mile further down this hill,
The river Burnside crossed,
Who razed this town clear to the ground,
Then every soldier lost.
The engine drones, the mower slows
Where young boys stood in fear.
It stops for time to clean the blades
Then slowly disappears.

The broken walls, the soldiers' calls,
The frightened guns are gone.
Still, shops that sell the souvenirs
Say, "Choose which side you're on."
And children search for evidence
To prove a war was here.
And perfect fields of Fredericksburg
Hide blood and bones, and tears.

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