We listen to unrelenting rain,
a fusillade of bullets pinging down
on the tin roof of our farmhouse.

Elizabeth’s stallion whinnies
and stomps his silvered hooves
as a coyote stalks the grounds.

Dozing off,
I’m a rifleman back at the Yalu River,
shivering in the winter of ’51.

A counteroffensive of a blistering firefight begins.
Overrun by numberless Chinese “volunteers,”
we’re ordered to retreat and run for our lives.

Awakened by a pounding heart,
I’m calmed by friendly touches in the middle of the night.

My right arm clings to the slender curve of your waist.
Can this moment go on forever?

Was that you or a seraph with an enigmatic smile
and a Rubenesque behind?

She wears a garland of golden flowers in her hair,
a diadem of lights sparkles in the dark.

I watch her play a silver harp to the beat of the rain
that may never end.

Morning is still a long way off.