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COMING HOME TO GEORGIA
by
Faye Green

Count me not among the weeping willows
that bow to the popular breeze.
Nor will I depend
upon indifferent wind
to roll me with the tumbleweed.

Give me instead those towering pines
that follow me to the hill.
And summon the play
of my yesterdays
like a whistle from the cotton mill.

Lay me beneath their prickly grasp
where the past meanders still
in search of the graves
nobility made
on this pine-needle battlefield.

They need not stand on foreign soil
to prove their comprehension
that life goes on
beyond the throng
of Southern intervention.

They know from where the sun will rise
and when the rain will fall.
They think it treason
to greet a season
without the same green protocol.

And as I stand beneath such giants
that know no other sky,
my foolish race
stares me in the face
for surely they have seen more than I.

© 2008 Faye Green