The Stitched Promise

The morning sun paints gold upon the floor,
A welcome mat sits silent by the door
The “Land of the Free” stitched in stars and blue
While coffee steams for one instead of two.

The breakfast table holds a lonely plate,
A victim of a knock, a hand of fate
The picket fence stands straight in painted white:
a hollow shield against the coming night

We speak of liberty and open gates
Yet, children watch the clock and contemplate--
How “justice for all” turns into the sound of fear,
When we watch the ones we love disappear

A pair of work boots left beside the rug, 
The lingering moment of one last, hurried hug. 

They say the law is written cold in ink and bone,
It doesn't hear the hollow, rising moans
Of empty hallways where laughter once rang,
Of lullabies a mom no longer sang

We claim unity; we toast to freedom’s light
Yet, shadows haunt the nursery tonight.
If “indivisible” is how we stand,
Why does a fracture stretch so far across the land?
The flag still stands -- beautiful and grand,
Above the quiet sorrows of fellow man.

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