It started its life as a log cabin,
Two rooms, cistern dug, timbers
Cut from thick woods running all
The way to Hinkston Creek.  

Added to a hundred years later,
Stone walls for two more rooms,
A sleeping loft, narrow ladder,
Six bright windows, two solid doors.  

Families came, families left, one
Owner gave it to his son, and he in turn
Lent it to a WWII hero shell shocked,
Same cursed PTSD we hear now.    

Hoppy strutted off to the war, tall
Proud, handsome. Fearless, bought
Of hard work, farm food. Pretty girls’
Attention made him feel invincible.  

Never was the same after Iwo Jima,
A meanness ran deep behind hard
Eyes. He would swing before thought
No matter who, child, wife, hand.  

Wife endured, smiled though no one
Could figure how she could, seeing
As how the tales never stopped
Of night flight over the fields to hide.  

The  boys left soon as they could,
Sad kids always wore a haunted look,
Never stopped loving their daddy,
But cared better with miles between.  

War’s white crosses tell of just one hurt,
Death demands its own tally of our men.
Those ravaged minds living uncrossed
Steal today from the soul and kin.