A summer haze
the temperature high
the air is hot as campfire blaze
the leaves that once were tender, crinkle dry–
we wait for rain
The churning clouds turn gray
no rain appears though clouds remain
then people at the churches start to pray
a rain falls clear and clean
the leaves change back to green.
I sometimes wonder why
the perfect rose is hard to pick
from off a thorny limb up high.
It is too far away
for me to pull it down
and try to reach it with a stick.
That gives me cause to wear a frown
and so I let it stay.
With honor I can stand, salute the flag,
feel happy that I live where we are free.
I can be humble if I wish, or brag
of lands that lie in splendor by the sea.
I can condemn or praise our president
as he proceeds with plans not guaranteed.
I may support his cause without comment,
or bellow loudly that I’ve disagreed.
And as I worship in my church of choice
on Sundays when the sun breaks out to shine,
I pray with gratitude as I rejoice
to claim this costly freedom that is mine.
May Glory ever wave atop her stand
in every yard across my country land.