The Fourth of July
A flag, faded from weather, sun and rain, hangs on the light pole. An unexpected fog dims the red, white, and blue further. Dim on the fourth of July.
You climb into the quarry behind the flag, to the top of the mountain of slate, far enough that slowly, the flag disappears from view.
It is morning still. The weather could change. A new flag, bright and untattered could be hung. A renewal, a reminder that we have made it this far from just that, a constant renewal.
The weather could change. But that is only half the celebration. Others crave the old flag,
tattered as it might be. History, they say. Familiar they say. Its dimness and tatteredness
notwithstanding, it’s what they have, what they want. Draped in fog.
The weather could change. It happens here. Sometimes suddenly. Sometimes slyly.
At times the skies have no limits. Other times, like this morning we are living in today, the sky oppresses.
It is the fourth. There may be fireworks. Or not. Depending on the weather.
About this poem
It is an uncertain holiday today. Two countries in the same geography with two visions of America and it seems, little middle ground. Celebrating freedom, but define that word so differently, neither side recognizes the other. How do we find our way together? Today is not a rant, but a lament.
The weather could change. Perhaps I will feel differently tomorrow.
The picture was taken from my front porch.
It seems many of us are feeling this way. We are at a crossroad, I think.