YES, THAT'S MY SON.

Yes, that’s my son,
I recognize his manly brow
And vacant stare,
And his turn of chin,
But how thin
He looks, how unkempt,
As if time has not rewarded
His youthful age
With fine laurel
And maiden’s kiss.

Yes, that’s my child,
I recognize his ears
That were small and prized,
And listened not too often
To his mother’s chide
Or mother’s touch.

Yes, that’s my baby,
I recognize his dimple cheeks,
And tiny hands,
And gentle feet,
How aged he looks,
How sad his boyish gaze,
Not as fine his youthful looks,
Not like yesterday’s
Bold promise, and his lips
Not so red, more dull
Like wash worn cloth
Or ashen skin
Of older years.

Yes, that’s my soldier son,
I recognize his eyes,
But glazed, uncaring
At what he looks, staring
At death and death’s cold touch,
And loss of youth and joy.

Yes, that’s my little boy,
I recognize his manly chest,
Lay him down; let him rest,
My soldier son,
Place the medals that he’s won
Upon his hands that stillness claims,
And let his name, like other names,
Be remembered in countless ways
As it was in youthful days.