At Valley Forge
Peering into the cabins where once
your great times 8 grandfather shivered to sleep?
Walking the lawn toward the grey stone
home where Washington watched them freeze
each night remorseful of the snow
on that specific patch of springtime grass and cried.
No war was fought here.
When your foot
took up some dark electricity from beneath
lift it and the crushing circuit breaks
what voice did you hear then?
Was it his? Your father's? Your son's?
Or your own echo and how do you tell
one from another
when you don't even have an explanation
for the four of you?
He was the 12th generation.
He is gone.
The line goes on.