Gentle Arms

Last Tuesday, a dear friend and peerless man came very close to dying in an attack on the Humvee he was riding through the streets of Afghanistan. The three men inside the Humvee were killed, and he only survived because he was manning the machine-gun turret on top of it. He escaped with blessedly minor injuries - singed lungs, broken legs, and local burns - and is currently in Texas awaiting surgery. I wanted to dedicate a poem to his return and recovery, but it took me a while to find one that fit my mood. I hope this does the trick.


Gentle Arms

Carry me home;
my body is worn.
Long did I roam,
but now I am born
upon gentle arms
and though my old door,
away from all harms,
to wander no more.