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Isn’t she beautiful?
When you top a steep slope and look down upon her hills, tumbling over each other for miles, covered in greenery of new spring, you realize that she, the land, is immaculate.
But she, the people, is often disappointing.
Do not blame the ground; she only holds them.
You shouldn’t blame her, everyone everywhere will never be perfect.
She is no special home for those who are intolerant and bigoted.
Yet I find myself blaming her anyway.
They are part of her after all.
It is not the land’s fault for the people, though she is soaked with unjust blood.
But so is the rest of this nation!
There is no exception in the entirety of this harrowed country.
Let’s love her canyons and glittering caves for what they are, exquisite facets of the land.
Her people are another matter, yet they should be carefully examined.
Let us not dwell on them for now.
We will critique them in good time.
We should appreciate her for what she is.
A honey sweet land, caught in the wisps of fresh spring.
Furiously flowering in the sweltering heat of the South.
Bare trees grasping the bright blue in the dead of December.
River run deep, like veins feeding the bayous and lakes of her body.
Her heart lies in the wide basin of the river valley, pumping the Ozarks away for the Ouachita Mountains.
Birds sing and soar in her sky; their songs her voice abroad.
Grasses sway in her breeze; her gorgeous flowing locks.
Fish dance in her waters; her dynamic ideas.
Trees dig into her earth; her ever maturing mind.
Rain pools in puddles that reflect the starlight; her mourning in twilight.
Cicadas and crickets roar in summer symphonies; her laughter in the evening.
Gloaming her sigh as she lays down her head and aurora her yawn as a new day begins.
Oh my love, mea dulcis amor, if only your politics weren’t so foul, you would be Eden.
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