See the field of flowers,
Rising from the ground?
Silent, snow-white flowers.
Steady, sad, and sound.
By hundreds they bloom
And watered by blood.
Some grow too soon,
All lost in time’s flood.
They grow for the dead.
A substitute grace
Of sacrifice, love,
And a beloved, missed face.
Like Flanders they cry,
“Look on us and see!
We are the reason
You smile and are free.”
Please don’t forget them
Don’t tread the field blind
Stop to see and smell them
Keep these flowers in mind
Simple surrealism,
They are born of death,
Courage, heroism,
and vows to protect.
Set in a city
Of weak, troubled men,
This graveyard of honor,
White-dressed, recommends
A bravery steep,
A price heavy paid,
Patriotism deep,
And sacrifice made.
Look at the flowers,
How fragile they are.
Each one’s a whisper
Of a country’s scars.
Do they remind us,
Or will they wilt,
No longer define us?
Will we let rust the hilt?
Remember the white flowers
Forever they’ll stand
As symbols of strength
Dear-bought gifts to our land.

–Lacey Deaver