Blue skies patched through with white and gray. Below,
Green might poke through the intermittent brown,
And if you’re lucky that pokes through the snow–
In many ways, luck’s a function of town.
Blue uniforms, or white, or gray for sport,
The yellow bridges spanning unseen borders,
Anything to tell teams apart. We sort
Now by more than alphabetical orders.
Black ribbons for some cause too small to read,
Not given lip service, but rather breast,
Something we won’t oppose in word or deed
And something then forgotten like the rest.
Red and green shining bright far from the sun,
Blue circles lighting the way: In play, run(s).