On Jutting Teeth

White rounded teeth jut from the ground,
rolling beyond the hill
and not making a sound.

Rows of carved teeth carry ever on,
winding all directions,
naming those that have gone.

And I see Major Thomas White,
quiet for five decades,
morning, noon, and all night.

All alone and with your stone friends,
whom did you love, Major,
whose world did you upend?

Is she still out there now, tonight,
dreaming the life denied
and holding you so tight?

Or have you now slipped and faded,
become just this cold stone,
signaling a love abated?

I will stand here and for you pray
that in your too short time
love never did betray.