Earth On The Fourth


If she were a mortal

flag master


at the turn of the last



she would’ve had control

of its arrangement:

stars, cloth, stitching —

its soul.


Now, at the turn

of another

she bristles

silently, ( her hush

a hovering wasp)


and laments how

the freedom maker

has left her field.


Its fabric scorched

by heat, a lack


of long grass

waving in the wind


brown strewn

in patches

where flowers grew



of climate & state



and the road

once its rural seam


now asphalt

widened, straighter


with patterns of tar



for dead & flattened

crows, country –


side birds

perceived, borrowed


from the billowing

fire of van Gogh.




  1. Wendy,

    This will probably be a duplicate, but I’m too impatient to wait.

    I am so thrilled that you have claimed your chair. What a super
    dynamic poem you have shared with us. I feel it with every fiber
    of my being.

    I will cut this short just in case the other one pops us. In case it
    does not, I will tell you again how I feel the anguish of our planet,
    and of our nation, in the lines that you have penned.

    You never disappoint; your work is always stop shelf!



  2. Seems to me we are stumbling now on the journey; losing direction and our very reason for existence. I expect eventually we will come to our senses and can only hope that Mother Nature has the necessary patience.

    Mayhap though, this poem is prescient, though I hope not.



  3. Dear Sarah, Craig and Douglaus

    Your wonderful comments and interest in this poem are so deeply appreciated! Thank you many times over!


  4. Hi Kerri

    Wonderful hearing from you! So glad you enjoyed the poem, I deeply appreciate your kind words!

    Take care


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