Without hesitation men are called upon,
Insensitive, actions memorized, numb to the searing, south wind.

They stand in a field full of yellow daisies
In err of caution while making an approach, looking back is not of notion.
For a thistle lay its roots among them,
No matter it is just a thistle, men not knowing might say,
If left alone to grow it will choke, pounce and let its presence known, until all the yellow has no choice but to bow to its evil ways.

These men have no bounty to gain, but a fear if something is not done, another field of defining presence, will be left to a certain outcome.
Their gear is heavy, saturated with salt pouring from their bodies,
There are places they rather be, but not as important.

These men have seen the scene so many times it has become one of nature,
Men who know no failure, watch the weed threaten, rest for them is uncommon, so many threats, so few of them, such little time, but there always to blanket the ones unable.
Eradicate the weed before it itself imposes its influence and then they leave like ghosts,
Leaving without a whisper.

For one it will be his last journey, weary of the changes within him,
He looks back and sees his footprints and the damage he has done.
There to save not devastate,
His mind goes spiraling; in his heart each footprint he has taken in a cause weighs heavy upon him.

Each step the damage is irreversible; slowly it will grow back in, a new daisy, anew beginning.
The old die and louder than ever he hears young grieving.

His conscious, pitted, pulled, pondered as his feelings fill his eyes.
Thoughts go racing until the color fades, black and white heighten his senses and the thistle falls with a single blow.

Years have past, many have replaced him,
The colors sometimes come and go and the black and white has melted to gray.
Most days he sits and stares, trying to make sense of the world and the past behind him,

The law of the land granted him the sword and in his actions he never wavered,
A man of few years, but through the scars and torment you could never tell;
He asks his Lord forgiveness, and only hopes he someday can nourish a field full of yellow daisies.

Anthony Henderson
433 S 46th Rd.
Dunbar, Ne. 68346