A day was a week. A week was a month. A month was a year. It took twelve years before the vague nuances from that year began to crystallize enough in order for me to begin to heal. A poem from Whirling Fire written over 35 years ago:

THE DREAMS

are not nightmares.
A bit of a thirst
for action and life?

A life so void
it must be filled
in sleep?

But the frustrations . . .
never a full uniform
weapons without ammunition
ammunition without weapons.

Familiar faces fill my screen
a yearning for kindred souls
we once were
never again to be.

Vagueness, incompleteness . . . haunt

THE DREAMS

continue
still not nightmares.

I begin to fight the need to go back.
I find weapons that fire
grenades that explode
. . . still no uniform.

Yet
I look forward
to the rapture of sleep
as I dream myself complete.