On this Monday morning
I think of scarred souls in hell
who had something monumental to give,

color coded people who fled
through a magnetism that fed them light,

waves that passed in error
never to return,
the blood that drips
and will not be regenerated,

trees that speak to my sitting soul,
straw yards that come up to my climbing
and ignite in green,

the singing flag
and scattered emblems
bristling fresh

fiber to be fondled
and stone to cut
stone.