Americana

Americana at its finest Those pastel sundowns, colors unsaturated, where pink gives way to blue and green melds with brown. Idyllic villas, sprawled gardens on acres, gentle grass grown and mowed and grown again. We know not how lucky we are but we do know how fruitless it is to care. That men bicker is a given and we smile wryly - Who can blame us for acting shy? Boys will be boys, after all. But men also shout, And men also shoot, And colors quickly enliven. We look outward at lustrous lands, soil rich, Rich from the red spilled out of the not-so-rich. We cultivate They cultivate Bad weather isn't grey - It's rather a blazing shade, what between the orange of clamoring shots and the yellow heat of blasted metal, as if breath out of the devil's mouth. It's rather a sickening sight, A sickening white, blinding enough to make us all turn away from the light. To look back inward is to see. Our sun rises and falls over the beautiful paysage, and each and every one of us A muted question of its own, along the way asking: Are you helping one another? Our soft purples in the sky, enjoying aspens in the slow breeze, swaying, Even amid humid conversations, our comfortable hues - lest what is merely humid turns to hot. We musn't ever know what we lack but watch that we have what we desire. So harmless the spark that fades to black So harmless the spark that lights the fire. ----- Orig: Grandparent's house