Patchwork in the Sun

(Rain sends me into poetry every time!)

When we lay democracy down, will we do it gently?
We will be careful.

When its voice grows hoarse,
we will listen.

When it stumbles,
we will not rush ahead.

We will carry what remains into the open fields.
We will spread what it made with us—
not shrouds, not relics,
but a working cloth
marked by hands,
by arguments,
by courage and error,
by the humble and the proud,
the sad and the mad,
the brave, the fearful,
and those who lived between.

We are among them.

We will stay a moment.
Not to mourn,
but to remember how it felt
to be asked.

We keep the question.

We will speak softly, not farewell
but thanks—
for the space it gave us,
for the chance to stand and answer,
for the work it asked of us.

We are not finished.

If it loosens its grip,
we will not call it gone.
If it cannot carry us,
we will carry one another.

We remain.

When we are tired,
we will rest without forgetting.
When we rise,
we will remember.

When we lay democracy down,
we will do it gently—
not because it is over,
but because it is fragile

And still within our keeping.

We remain.