I picked up a stone on Omaha Beach
while cold April winds blew round
and I swear I could hear out on the reach
whispered cries from that hallowed ground.

Overlooking the sands where bunkers remain like sentinels with eyes to the sea
stand acres of stone with long-ago names and old men on bended knee.

Around and around and around I walk
circling that vast quiet place
while crosses and stars of those who have fought
seem to turn to follow my pace.

The staggering cost of my freedom hits home
and I leave with my gratitude and a round, brown stone.

 By Linda M. Langlois