Words by Samantha Moats


This place is Ours, or was. 
Our land spread for acres. 
The farmhouse just before
Train tracks, her garden here
Between, his tractors just
There – beings of times past. 

Greenbrier is a few miles
Up the road, and some styles
Never change: we still do
Family dinners, and though
We've spread out far and wide, 
Know it's here we abide

Back at the farm, we wait
And wonder how long Fate
Will hold us here, for Time
Is changing our land. "Prime
real estate!" some call it. 
But me? I call it Ours

Our field of cotton, those
Fields like snow never froze. 
Our secret trails, Our lost
Haunts: these are now mere thoughts
And memories, for they
Are Others' homes today. 

In one I crashed my four- 
Wheeler; in another
We built a fort; and still
Some held fires burned until
They called us home again– 
For we were younger then. 

But those fires never died. 
For us, they burn inside
Our souls: when young and old
Gather near, when the cold
Returns to us each year. 
This road, this home, this place 

                                                      is Ours