Liberty’s Call
A poem about what we can be
Has anyone seen her?
She is 145 years old.
She stands 151’ 1” tall — once with strength and grace.
She strains to lift our torch up to the sky.
She cradles our declared independence.
Last seen wearing a robed dress, a seven-ray crown;
Broken chain and shackle at her feet.
Where can she be?
She’s wandering:
Glowing faint in the darkness of Mammoth Cave,
Rollin’ wearily along the Mississippi River,
Trekking across the prairies of the Great Plains,
Camping, with respect, in Monument Valley,
Showering in Yosemite Falls,
Warming her hands by the fires of Kilauea,
Praying atop Denali.
Like thunder, her voice booms.
I was a gift.
A gift — misrepresented by some.
A gift, wrapped in your battle for freedom.
Freedom from oppression, from tyranny.
An optimistic flame in tumultuous times.
Like many who have fought before, still fighting,
I am wounded, yet still here.
