Like the elder oak
in our front yard,
you have stood tall, too,
just not as long.

With the wind,
you also sway.
Without the wind,
you hang still.

Though I’ve never served,
you’ve never judged.
Not even when I didn’t vote,
shrugged my shoulders.
What’s the point?

Before you fray and fade,
let me lower you. Let me
fold you. Let me place
you into fire. Let the trees salute
you with their branches.

And watch the flame bloom red, white, and blue. 

Author Bio :

Originally from San Antonio, Texas, Jonathan Fletcher holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing (Poetry) from Columbia University School of the Arts.  He has been published in Acropolis Journal, The Adroit Journal, Arts Alive San Antonio, and other renowned Journals. He has also been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  He has served as a Columbia Artist/Teacher for New York City’s iHOPE, a specialized school for students with traumatic brain injuries, as well as a poetry editor for Exchange, Columbia University’s literary magazine for incarcerated writers and artists. Currently, he serves as a Zoeglossia Fellow.