How the name
	Wraps itself
	About my tongue,
	Telling me
	I've come home!
	Those deep brown
	Waters course
	Through my veins
	Like living mud,
	Nurturing a soul
	Never quite
	At home
	Any other place
	I rest my
	Weary bones.
	I can stand
	In some dusty
	Panola crossroads,
	Sandy delta soil
	Beneath my feet,
	And I know
	I belong.
	All around me
	Stretch the fields
	Of cotton, sorghum,
	Corn, wheat and hay.
	While I may
	Love the hills,
	Love the mountains
	With their rocky streams,
	My dreams
	Are made
	Of delta clay,
	Of smokey haze
	And sultry sun
	Shimmering at the edges
	Of fields as flat
	As the day is long.
	This song
	I sing to the South!
	Here I was born,
	Here ever
	Will my heart return,
	When I hear
	Someone speak
	Of home.


© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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