Say the word, Henry, and it will be done –
It will be…
So declares my soul – my spirit readily agrees
(It smiles a wry smile)…
I am confused – happy…
Every one of those ten thousand things (?)
March on the other’s seat at last!
It must be June again – or July…
It must be autumn – November remember….
Declaration, proclamations and oaths (sworn and broken),
All in the fragrant (tragic-comic) silent night,
‘Don’t tread on me’?
Recall: – Shenandoah – and ‘6’…
That color, catching the breeze there,
What is it?
A stretch of cloth.
A bold and noble banner… mayhap – not?
With cross saltier-
Azure- – emblazoned – with pentangles -13…
Upon a field argent…
I would salute-
I would doff my hat
(If I had one – and if it were permitted it… but then…)
I give thanks for what is to come – for what may yet…
But… I will not.
I will thankful for the furled flag
Banner bold though it be, noble cause for it was – was not, – of
The greatest when it is put away at last.
“My call is the call of battle, I nourish active rebellion,
He going with me must go well arm’d,
He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty,
Angry enemies, desertions.”
-Walt Whitman, -‘The Song of the Open Road’