Mickey
Mickey was there on Utah Beach.
It’s in France, down below that bluff
where they now lie—all the beautiful
young men. This is where, if you
descend the steep boardwalk, you
know what it took to
reach those heights in 1944.
You come upon a strand of stones
laid out long upon the beach.
Black and round stones,
tan and gray and rough stones.
And people from around the world
come down, pick up a stone,
place a stone. Perhaps a few.
I took two; dark, smooth, well-weathered.
Brought them to Mickey in Florida,
told him of stones removed, stones replaced—
I brought one for Mickey,
one for his cousin, my dad,
who was on Omaha Beach.
Then, we didn’t speak.
His tears told the tale.
ISSUED 