Cleaves of Grass

O comrades, gather 'round, a song I weave of daring deeds,

Of mountain trails and tumbling falls, where wild adventure seeds.

Sakajawea, our fearless guide, with eyes like polished coal,

Leads us onward, hearts ablaze, to reach the sacred goal.

Yosemite's peaks, a canvas grand, where sunlight paints the scene,

A beauty that can steal your breath, a test for the keen.

But hold, for on this playful path, we test our mortal coil,

Like Petit, a dancer on a thread, between the towers' toil

.

The land of milk and honey flowed, a feast for all to share,

But shadows crept, and fences rose, a burden hard to bear.

Yet, in the cracks, a spirit bloomed, in denim clad and bright,

Coca-Cola's sweet embrace, a youthful, joyous light.

But hark! Where went the playful crowd? Where vanished laughter's chime?

The games turned harsh, the players scowl, lost in a bitter rhyme.

The rainbow's hues, once bright and bold, to shades of anger dimmed,

The magic fountain's joyous spray, a memory now skimmed.

Has play's bright flame been truly doused? Or waits a spark unseen?

Perhaps on Independence Day, in fireworks' vibrant sheen,

A fire shall rise, a playful soul, to chase away the night,

And Whitman's voice rings out once more, with hope's eternal light. 

Walt Whitman inspired, Gemini assisted, Image: Dall-E