grandma poem

she was a beauty in the days
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
the little white prayers
melancholy days have come
in his guarded tent
i make my shroud, but no one knows
she might have known it in the earlier spring
when i go back to earth
before the solemn bronze saint
why do
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
see, from this counterfeit of him
beneath the warrior's helm
birds against the april wind