Convenient, alluring, fragrant skin
Glistening even in the darkest shadows
Rich with softness that makes all else--
Memory, promises, and time to come--seem cheap,
Though she is cheaply replaced herself.
No, liberty is not a mistress, but a grandmother.
With gnarled hands and spotted, creviced skin,
She is frail and demanding of care,
Irreplaceable but easy to neglect,
Slow to consider our ease and quickly offended.
She pleads with us to listen again and learn,
Endlessly rehearsing strange myths
Of sacrifices we cannot imagine,
Faintly echoing the trumpet calls of distant battles won
And softly weeping for fallen heroes unknown.
Yet the past is not her passion. The prayer
That fills her soul is not for self, but for us
That we may keep what she has preserved
That we may inherit joy and substance
Beyond tawdry pleasures and passing thrills,
That when our dim candle consumes its last drops of wax,
That we may still have flame enough to teach
Impatient grandchildren the true things of life.
- J.L., for the 4th of July, 2009 (version 2)
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