Perhaps,
	Two-hundred years ago,
	Jefferson himself
	Stood on this promenade
	And stared westward
	Through the leafless trees,
	Silhouetted dark
	And grim
	Against the fog.
	What thoughts were his
	That Christmas-coming night,
	Dark, dank,
	Without light?
	Could he see,
	Using heart and mind,
	What kind of sight,
	Tonight, I saw?
	Could he imagine
	How the country
	He helped conceive
	Would grow?
	Could he catch
	Some glimmering
	Of the forty thousand
	Lights that tonight
	Moved my soul
	To write this poem?
	Or was he
	Merely cold, old,
	Weary of the wars
	And wishing
	He were in his bed
	Instead?
	Somehow, I think
	He saw the lights,
	Saw what might
	Someday come to be,
	Saw what
	I would one day see.

12/11/83

© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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