Memorial Day is one of those holidays where you’re so wrapped up in your life that you lose sight of what it’s for, by which I might mean, all of the holidays? I stole a few minutes this morning before Joe woke up to read about its origins. Then, you know, Joe woke up, so I’m left with a half thought and a poem. I was able to read that while it’s agreed upon that Memorial Day is meant to honor fallen soldiers, there’s different takes on when we actually started celebrating the day. It’s an ancient Greek ritual to put fresh flowers on graves during Spring time, just like it’s an ancient Pagan Spring ritual to hide and find eggs. But more recently, after the Civil War, Southern women started putting fresh flowers on the graves of fallen soldiers, both Confederate Soldiers AND Union Soldiers — and it may have started then, as Decoration Day. That’s how Southern women — and let’s just say WOMEN EVERYWHERE, Do. We hold all of the olive branches. Are we the Key? I’ll leave you with that maybe three fourths of a thought, and this poem that was inspired by the generosity of those women.

The Blue and Gray

by Francis Miles Finch

By the flow of the inland river,
  Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
  Asleep are the ranks of the dead:
      Under the sod and the dew,
        Waiting the judgment-day;
      Under the one, the Blue,
        Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory,
  Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
  In the dusk of eternity meet:
      Under the sod and the dew,
        Waiting the judgment-day,
      Under the laurel, the Blue,
        Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours
  The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers
  Alike for the friend and the foe:
      Under the sod and the dew,
        Waiting the judgment-day,
      Under the roses, the Blue,
        Under the lilies, the Gray.

So, with an equal splendor,
  The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
  On the blossoms blooming for all:
      Under the sod and the dew,
        Waiting the judgment-day,
      Broidered with gold, the Blue,
        Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,
  On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
  The cooling drip of the rain:
      Under the sod and the dew,
        Waiting the judgment-day,
      Wet with the rain, the Blue,
        Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
  The generous deed was done,
In the storm of the years that are fading
  No braver battle was won:
      Under the sod and the dew,
        Waiting the judgment-day,
      Under the blossoms, the Blue,
        Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war cry sever,
  Or the winding rivers be red;
The banish our anger forever
  When they laurel the graves of our dead!
      Under the sod and the dew,
        Waiting the judgment-day,
      Love and tears for the Blue,
        Tears and love for the Gray.