He died the morning of his second
daughter's wedding. Fell across an
unmade bed;
half-dressed, half-drunk.
His heart, they said.
A priest came,
kissed the bride, prayed over her father,
who'd rarely set foot on holy ground
since Burma and Korea.
Said he didn't need the benefit
of clergy after those small affairs.
His heart?
His heart signed its peace
that wedding day,
after beating a long, long retreat.
James Mills
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-long-retreat/
