My flag is tattered, exposed
to foul weather and worse.

Torrents of April, a weeping rag,
when butterflies fluttered
so did my flag.
In temperate breezes,
a freshly washed sheet, my flag
seemed right for all sorts of reasons.

Blistering sunshine began to fade
red streaks of memory and pain.
Dark summer storms, thunder and hail
battered it then and again.

Assembled armies of crows
soiled my flag truth be told.
The fall of leaves, the empty trees,
my flag got wrapped ‘round its pole.

This winter’s long nights, coldest in years,
my flag is entombed in ice.
Beyond my window, it can’t be seen,
but I picture its stars and stripes.

©2003, Brian Erler

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