Ode to a jar of pickles

We were both so green then
in the heat of summer when
we reach for that blue sky,
tendrils and hopes flung high.

Now we’ve both turned sour
and grayer by the hour.
We in our paler versions–
after the autumn incursions
which bared the country’s perversions–
fear this wicked excursion
of moral retroversion.

But you remind us of what is good,
and what can be if we only would
unite to remove the rot
of the trump-musk Gordian knot.

(I’m sorry, pickles, that this has turned out to be more of a lament than an ode to you.)