Beyond the manicured lawns and the white-picket lines, Where the scent of the jasmine and salt air entwines, We gather this morning as the bugle notes play, To remember the cost of the ground where we stay.
A home is a harbor, a legacy built, Free from the shadow of burden or guilt, It’s the deed in the drawer and the keys in the hand, The quiet fulfillment of owning the land. But the title is written in more than just ink; It’s held by the ones who stood at the brink.
For every front porch where a swing softly sways, There were those who gave up the rest of their days. They traded their sunsets for ours to be bright, And stood in the gap through the thick of the night, So that we might plant gardens and watch our kids grow, In the safety of shadows they’ll never quite know.
The American Dream isn’t just brick and beam, It’s the freedom to wake and the courage to dream. It’s a mortgage on life that was paid for in full, By the brave and the steady, the heart and the pull. Every flag on the porch, every light in the hall, Is a quiet "thank you" to those who gave all.
So today, as we walk through the neighborhoods dear, And the laughter of neighbors is all that we hear, We honor the heroes who secured every floor, And the peace that we find when we walk through our door.
Comments(5)