Still

(on the 4th of July)

Photo by iStrfry , Marcus on Unsplash

Still, there’s no shortage of tragedy in this,

the land of the free.

The news unsettles me, leaves me weary-

homegrown terrorists target our brave,

and homeless encampments

intersect the corners of systemic

racism, very much alive.

Still, the libraries hold their kindness,

even as their books are gutted to the spines,

subtracted-abstracted-redacted

history? We signal celebration

sparklers and s'mores,

while the books- Oh the books,

their pages bleeding

red. and white. and blue.

Still the mountains. Oh, the mountains!-

where the bald eagles weave their nests,

hold the veins of humanity within their talons,

as we squander the trees,

from which we breathe.

They fly above, only watching as the

rivers erase the mistakes we

refuse to learn from.

Still, I stand here on this summer’s day, my

toes curling in the softness of the sea.

Oh, the sea. Wind my arm

back and throw my scallop

shell past the gull’s cry. Let the

waves swallow whole my wish. Let

the tide rinse clean our deeply seated

failures, our ever-present inequalities.

Still, for this land that I love-

I seek out beauty. Oh, the beauty.

And goodness finds me. Still.

I pray. And still, I cry-

for this star-strangled

America, on the

4th of July.