Dedicated to Robert Frost
He is as on a mountain a red flag
Which stands to attention against the white
That the wind tears into a tattered rag,
Battered and weakened it longs to take flight;
Lost among the boundless and bleached landscape,
The vermillion red meant to portend,
The threads woven into a makeshift cape
As the stiffened fabric attempts to bend;
Sturdy, it’s rooted in the frozen ground
Stuck to beliefs, but not unwavering,
The fibers moving but forever bound,
The scratched wooden stick stern and centering;
And when the winds die and the colors fade
There it will stand, against the white, unswayed.