and the night sky is painted in bursts of color
that come and go in maniacal waves: first is ruby,
and then topaz, then dashes of seaweed and coral,
and finally, eruptions of violet and dandelion shine on 
the twilight blank canvas. I have never known
explosions to collaborate into rainbow mosaics
and was raised on crimson splattered across 
the frosted grass like blotches on a prize cow.
Children scatter throughout the backyard with
sparklers dangling from their hands. They
transform into shooting stars, jubilant comets.
The condensation from the chilled beer in the
hands of veterans and their sons (soon-to-be vets)
shimmer like far away galaxies named after our
nations heroes. As the new young sun, I am to 
burn for my country and spark fires in chests of
meandering planets and voracious black holes. 
This is my heritage of embers. I have never read
it, but I think this is what Leo Tolstoy meant 
when he placed the Peace after War.