Mickey

Mickey was there on Utah Beach.
The young may think of a shore on
The Great Salt Lake.
But it’s in France, below a bluff
Where thousands lie forever.
This is where, if you
Descend the steep boardwalk,
You come upon a strand of stones
Laid out long upon the beach.
Black and round stones,
Tan and gray and rough stones.
Stones.
All sorts of stones.
And people from around the world
Descend the steps. They pick up a stone,
Place a stone. Perhaps a few.
I took two; both dark and smooth. Well-weathered
By decades.
Brought them to Mickey in Florida,
Told him of stones removed, stones replaced—
One for Mickey, one for my dad.
Then, we didn’t speak.
His tears told the tale.