The days after the Fourth
It’s quieter now — no more sparks that will shower;
The booms and explosions grow fewer each hour
As whiffs of the smoke that envelop the date
Will ever so slowly now fade (if you wait.)
The cardboard and wrappings that once looked so bright
Are garbage come morning — such litter, the sight!
We pick up the fragments of all that was shed;
The dogs poke their noses from under the bed.
A relative calm is what morning is bringing;
As holidays go, this one leaves our ears ringing.