For a flag! I answered facetiously. A flag of tomorrow, fluent in fire, not just the whispers, lisps, not just the still there of powdered wigs, dry winds. Who wants a speckled drape that folds as easy over smirch as fallen soldier? This is rhetorical. Like, "What to the Negro is the fourth of July?" A flag should be stitched with a fuse.
Beside the waterfall, by the lichen face of rock, you pause in pine shade to remember blue for drawing back, and green for trust, replenishing yourself among familiar leaves with scattered sunlight. And beyond those trees in time not ours, you see our children search