A Harvest Palette For the Inauguration's America

Perhaps the "We" in a poem about young "America" can thread the plural pronoun into a universal tapestry: "We" seek the Sunrise- fiery golden streams, threads of expectancy, not simply of hope. Rarely realized. Almost always recognized, for we read, we write; we sing, we praise the "American Dream". Or God(s). "We" are the intricacies of Belief. Of Choice(s). Of a trajectory of fading footprints: "We" take our first steps every "Dawn". "We" are souls who will vanish unless carved into stone. Or become a portrait on a wall, still viewing the World. Or our words can be bound-a bandaged sky that allows a Star's light to sift through. And we can see a violet-onyx canvas that beckons with the glisten ofsterling pinpricks when the sky is dark. For this part of the tapestry: the color is of a petal dipped into a Harvest palette, blended into a flower of any pigment ever created by Nature, or by Science; a bloom that will turn to the Sun, that will fold into itself to rest, every twilight. A tapestry of effulgence: rainbow to moonbow; radiation to the splitting of the photon. The final seams are tat to drape a veil, many veils, to keep secret our true countenance; to create the facade that bouys while "we" drift.. towards another Sunset.. rubicund golddust that spatters light; a shiny yolk that bleeds..a burst clot.