Fourth of July

A flag flies in the morning fog.
The air is heavy and there is no wind to unfurl it.
A monochrome morning, false colors,
a thing we never meant to be,
forgoing, forgetting the blood of many colors
left on the battlefields
to become something more than we imagined
hundreds of years ago.

More than we imagined.
That is the promise,
that all means all, no subsets of blood here,
no subsets of color or sex or any false flag,
Two hundred years of sputtering progress,
back and forth wars of human nature vs something
larger.

Grace. Kindness. Inclusiveness.
Of curiosity overtaking judgment
(Thank you Mr. Whitman.)
A celebration that such a place might, just might, be possible,
each generation deciding whether or not
we meant it.

About this poem

I believe in the power of love and an inclusive world. I am feeling a bit old fashioned in that belief, but still, I believe.

Tom