There is a box of Crayons - Crayola.
And I am but one soul member,
Not even beautiful among the light
colors - periwinkle blue, magenta, plum,
aquamarine, forest green, chartreuse.
I am burnt sienna; raw umber.
Brown and muddied,
While all the others bright and distinct.
They are all happy, with their distinguished entities
But they cannot stand alone without contrast.
I am them all.
Combined, though not as grand in appearance.
Truly the most colorful.
A child eyes the box of crayons,
My box of crayons,
Picks them up and colors.
Reds, oranges, greens, blues, yellows, purples,
They're all there - except one.
Me, I'm too plain.
He has colored America
and I am not present,
Yet my prescence is felt.
By them all