The peculiarity of that place,
where wintry greys kissed the sky,
and shimmers and lights blinked at time.
It was the look you gave her—
blind admiration—when she was no more than green copper.
You wept in joy,
as liberty softly laced itself around your neck,
and when you turned your head,
you choked
on red, white, blue, and stars.
The color of your face
was sewed to some kaleidoscopic quilt,
to some laughable pigeonhole.
You have trekked the impossible
to pursue this dream,
yet your tongue’s improper glide,
your nose’s short stature
and your modest gaze
were the impassable hindrances.
The thought of better prospects
drained your blood
and your pride in your home,
with doubts consuming you whole.
But the sweat that trickled from your face
slowly turned to gold.
Hope embraced
the ones you love most
with a silver lining,
the promise not forgotten,
eclipsing broken hearts.
You wept in joy still,
as liberty bells rang in clarity,
your throat unfettered, your sight regained.
So you never turned back.
Only a forward loving gaze
upon red, white, blue, and stars.
The peculiarity of this place,
that juxtaposes love and pain
and hides the oxymoron of its welcome.
It was the look you gave her—
tearful thankfulness—because she is more than green copper.