The Mire

These trenches are endured alone,

and at times so thick

with sucking mud and cloying fog,

so much enemy fire at one woman

that it seems there will be no end

and no happiness,

that somewhere along the line

you did not sign up for this,

are not made for this.

Perhaps the mire

is you being made

for this.

So the soft cotton tufts are plucked

from the cloud fields

then wound and wound

to usefulness.

So the string inches

up the cello bridge,

never closer to breaking

when it sounds its

true note.