1965
I came across an ancient text
From when I was fifteen
Buried in a paper box
Forgotten and unseen.
I marvelled at the language there
And in my simple faith
In the rightness of my land
On its expanding path.
It must have been the things they taught
That shaped my point of view.
My pride was pure but incomplete
With things I never knew.
America, I still love you whole
For all that you could be.
At fifteen there was so, so much
That I was not allowed to see,
But I see it now, warts and all
With utter clarity.
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