Her stripes were worn and faded,
Her fabric torn and frayed.
Tattered stars hung loosely now,
Weakened by old battles and decayed.
Still, she hung with dignity,
Despite her ragged state.
Her very fabric promised hope,
Although the hour was late.
Just then, as dawn was breaking,
A rustling in the trees,
A disturbance in the morning mist
And a cool, refreshing of breeze.
The flash of nearby lightening,
Pulses quickened by the thrill,
While meadows shook with thunder
And a deluge took the hill.
With that, Old Glory caught the wind,
Unfurled, as on the march.
Despite the hail that tore her hems,
She took the field and stretched out stiff as starch.
And those who saw this marveled,
And recalled old glory’s youth.
And hearts swelled near to bursting,
Quickened by old loyalties and truth.
And every soul saluted,
While new hope replaced old fears,
And each heart pledged allegiance,
And sealed their pledge with gratitude and tears.
SHANNON THOMAS CASEBEER