Sign Language

Winter wheat, winter wheat --
tender green against the bleak November.
"A trope for love," I say to Peter. "Though I'm not sure how."
Peter, who buried his beloved last year, answers
"You're too young."

We're driving to a funeral --
My brother, lost to war. There will be flags and taps.
On top of a loess the cemetery's bare windbreak
hardly breaks the bitter blows. Trumpet. Gunshots.
A thousand crows.

We hope his baby daughter
knows nothing of sorrow, that her startled squawk and kicks
are for some other reason. I put her name
into her hair -- the only gift
he lived to give her.

Ham salad, thin coffee.
Little Molly struggles, fussing. My sister gives her
a name sign, an M to hide against the heart.
Molly yanks the unfamiliar hat, a sign
for father, father.