There is a breaking

almost a noise of death rended

of day, or life, or joy

brought awake

and

my brother’s shoulder touches mine

and

he stands to my left

and

his brother to my right.

My shoulder touches his.

More than a mythical might

with

mirror images all around whose faces

with

firmness defy death’s tender gloves that

with

lies try to coax.

We all,

facing dawn’s pale birth like

a French horn singing crescendo in

Messiah,

join

our voices in tender fury to

join

our brothers oldest to youngest who

join

faith with deed and embrace

love.

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Jared Garrett

Author of the Beat Series

A poem with no title