Origins

 The Deep South, hot, humid and unforgiving,

You can see it etched in the faces of those born here,

In the face of the farmer, who worked beneath his father and the one before,

In the face of the pastor, proclaiming his faith and preaching it out upon his weary congregation,

In the face of the grocery store clerk, emptying buggies, greeting each person they meet,

In the face of the hardened labor hand, working hard so the mother of his children at home doesn't have to,

I see it in myself,

In every mirror that hangs in these halls,

The lines etched in the same places, 

Those of worry, those of fear, those of disparity, 

Those of laughter shared, smiles that never quite faded, 

This land is tough, so is this town,

Each and every one that comes and goes,

Yet, it feels so foreign to me.

My hands are no longer calloused and rough,

The skin on my back has softened,

My skin glows white like the moon,

Instead of reflecting a tan from the hot summer sun,

I am from this red clay,

Molded by whatever holy hands that may be,

Yet I still feel foreign and out of place,

Even when here in the home of my blood.