Facing the blinding urchin of the sun
in the high contrast of November,
the wind whistling in the wire,
the tall old oaks along the road
roaring for change, their sharp pennants
starched straight out toward the capitol,
holding my breath in a penetrating chill,
I am steadied by the familiarity of home,
by the form of the hill against the sky,
by the few, great trees as old as the nation itself,
clinging to faith in the most of us,
able to trace with pride a soldier line
through two world wars, the Civil War,
The War of 1812, and The Revolution,
loving the idea of America,
of what was won and what was lost,
and what I believe it is still and can be.
