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
Never miss a local story.
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.