In the Land

Beneath my feet is the only land I own and that feels as true as the handle of a good hammer or my favorite pen. Why is it, then, that my tongue is bitter dust and something does not thread smoothly, when i hear my neighbor's grief? This morning, I heard children sing "This land is your land this land is my land..." and I began to cry was sputtering,choking. My eyes were blizzard blind salt flooded, my breath betrayed my classroom whiteboard, unwilling and blank old glory in the corner, hanging from the wall making me feel alone.