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208 gArnet poems A Walk in Winter I think it is winter, afternoon. My father and I walk in pine woods in jackets too thin for the wind and don’t talk about the war we never talk about, the shells, the minefield he woke in, stumbling on enemy, the fire he called down on his position. The needles mute our steps, our hands bunch in their pockets. It must be New Hampshire, our dark north, though the ocean of his last home salts the air too in our mouths. We come out on a field of husks waiting for spring which will make no difference. We have agreed without having argued. The ocean is silent, the trees say hardly anything, on the far edge birds contend. Suddenly I’m shouting Don’t you understand, I only get one father. He smiles his hard-worn comprehensive smile— some photos remember it. Then I wake, a weekend dawn. The day will wander through its plan, a few hours’ drive to fetch my son for his night at my home. I’m getting ready to hear of his war, the one someone prepares him in a room without windows. I too will figure to uproot my life 209 ChArles o. hArtmAn to save him from it. He won’t know until the war, the time, is over. I won’t tell him, and he will have found his way through with, from me, nothing. ...

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