Your children are called the people downstream,
Far from the headwaters, where the river seeps stagnant
And mosquitoes suspend like old biased beliefs.
You drowse dull, disenchanted in the sun-steaming summer,
Then whirl a tornado like a rage-blind wild hog.
Your pockets are empty, your trigger too ready,
Your eyes squint suspicious, blustering pride.
Your rebel bars glare near the whitewashed church steeples,
You stick stubborn as nails to your guns and your blood.
What to say to the land that birthed me, and broke me?
Where I live now, but I pray not to die?
So often I've struggled—to love you, or leave you?
Like my ancestors' story, you won't allow either one.
I’ve tried to pull loose from your mud on my boots,
But the song of your river is sung in my blood.
For neighbors have offered tomatoes and tractors,
I've danced to the music of dragonflies, dipthongs,
And diamonds still shine from the Murfreesboro mud.
Even now, as the High Country calls, I forgive you—
The way that the forest forgives its own roots,
The way that the clouds still make peace with the sky,
The way I forgive, in the mirror, my face.