This land was lived on long before I came,
These pines provided tar and pitch to proof
Baskets woven from needles and grasses,
Bark to blanket huts of reeds and branches,
Spanish moss for fabric, and shade for one
To lay a head upon a root and dream;
These rivers, creeks, and streams were once clearer,
These banks and shores once free of all debris
Save what the water should toss to its fringe,
These fields were once not plowed to dry extremes,
But planted with care by the displaced hands
Of those few who first gave this land its name-
In which I was born, and which I call home–
Of whom little more remains than flintknapped stones.

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