This Land

Companion Preface

This work appears in four movements, not as revisions of one another, but as different ways of standing on the same ground.

The first speaks with grit.

The second listens for what still opens.

The third braids what was once held apart.

The fourth offers a vow—small, human, unfinished.

Together, they trace a walk rather than an argument.

What changes between them is not the land,

but the stance of the one walking it.

You may enter at any point.

You may linger where something recognizes you.

Nothing here asks for agreement—

only presence.

— Flower InBloom

This Land

I was walking

without a map,

just the sound of my own breath

and the long memory of footsteps

pressed into the dirt before me.

There were fences—

not always visible,

but I felt them

when my chest tightened,

when a voice said this isn’t for you,

when a line was drawn

with words instead of wire.

The land didn’t say that.

The river didn’t say that.

The dust didn’t check my name

before clinging to my shoes.

I crossed valleys where hands had labored

and mountains that watched

generations come and go

without keeping score.

The sky didn’t belong to anyone—

it simply opened

and let us breathe.

I saw signs that said No Trespassing

and others that said Welcome Home,

sometimes nailed to the same post,

depending on who was reading them.

But beneath the signs

the earth kept doing

what it has always done—

holding seeds,

breaking open,

feeding whoever showed up hungry.

This land carries songs

older than ownership,

stories spoken in many tongues,

some stolen,

some silenced,

some still humming under the noise.

It remembers bare feet.

It remembers chains.

It remembers hands reaching not to take

but to plant,

to build,

to bury,

to pray.

I learned this land isn’t mine

the way a thing is owned,

and it isn’t yours

the way a prize is claimed.

It’s ours

the way breath is shared,

the way grief travels through families,

the way hope keeps resurfacing

even when buried too deep.

This land is your land

when you tend it.

This land is my land

when I protect it.

This land is our land

when we stop pretending

it was ever meant to be divided

from itself.

And as long as the ground keeps opening

and the sky keeps listening,

there is room here—

for your story,

for mine,

for the ones still walking

toward home.

This Land (Rough Cut)

I walked into a country

that taught me how to sing

before it taught me how to listen.

They said this land is yours

but handed me a rulebook,

a fence line,

a price tag,

and a warning label.

I saw borders drawn like scars—

fresh enough to bleed,

old enough to be called history.

The land didn’t ask for papers.

The river didn’t recognize law.

The soil never voted

for who gets to eat.

I passed signs that said No Trespassing

on land stolen so long ago

the theft learned how to smile.

There were men with deeds

and women with empty hands,

children learning early

what side of the line they were born on.

This land remembers screams

buried under sidewalks,

prayers pressed into cotton fields,

names erased

so comfort could stay clean.

Don’t tell me this land is free

when freedom comes with conditions,

when hunger is criminalized,

when survival is called trespassing.

Still—

the earth keeps opening.

Still—

the rain keeps falling

on the righteous and the ruthless alike.

So if this land is yours,

prove it by protecting it.

If this land is mine,

I’ll stand between it and the fire.

And if this land is ours,

then we’ve got work to do—

because the ground knows the truth

even when we refuse to say it out loud.

This Land (Gentler Cut)

I walked this land slowly,

as if listening might change something.

The wind didn’t ask who I was.

The path didn’t need permission.

The horizon opened

without checking my worth.

I’ve seen fences rise

where stories once crossed freely,

and signs try to speak louder

than the earth beneath them.

But the land keeps offering itself—

fields growing despite neglect,

rivers carrying names

we forgot how to say.

This land holds many hands at once,

even when we don’t.

It remembers footsteps layered over time,

each one believing they were first,

each one learning they were not.

This land is your land

when you walk it with care.

This land is my land

when I listen before I claim.

This land is our land

when we let belonging mean responsibility,

not possession—

when we choose to stay

and tend

and share the ground beneath us.

And maybe that’s how home begins—

not with ownership,

but with gratitude

and the quiet promise

to leave room for those still coming.

This Land (Braided)

I walked into a country

that taught me how to sing

before it taught me how to listen.

They said this land is yours

and handed me a map with missing names,

a fence line drawn like law,

and a promise that only worked

if I stayed in my place.

The land didn’t say that.

The river never learned the rules.

The soil didn’t ask who deserved bread.

I walked valleys layered with labor,

mountains heavy with memory,

roads paved over stories

we were told not to ask about.

I saw signs that said No Trespassing

nailed into ground taken so long ago

the theft learned how to sound official.

I saw welcome signs too—

sometimes on the very same road,

depending on who was arriving.

This land remembers more than we admit.

It remembers bare feet and broken chains,

hands that planted knowing they might never harvest,

prayers whispered into fields

where names were erased

so comfort could remain clean.

Don’t tell me this land is free

while hunger is punished,

while survival is renamed crime,

while belonging is rationed

by ink and inheritance.

Still—

the earth keeps opening.

Still—

rain falls without checking status.

Still—

the horizon refuses to pick sides.

I learned this land isn’t mine

the way a thing is owned,

and it isn’t yours

the way a prize is claimed.

It’s ours

the way breath is shared,

the way grief travels bloodlines,

the way hope keeps surfacing

even when buried too deep.

This land is your land

when you tend it.

This land is my land

when I protect it.

This land is our land

only when we stop pretending

it was ever meant to be divided

from itself.

I walk it now with listening feet,

aware of who came before

and who still waits for room.

I stay—

not to claim,

but to care.

Vow / Closing Couplet

This land is your land.

This land is my land.

As long as we are breathing here,

we belong to it—

and it belongs to all.

Dedication

For those whose footsteps were erased,

for those still walking without permission,

and for the land itself—

which remembers us

even when we forget each other.

Author’s Note

This poem was written in listening rather than certainty.

It does not claim ownership, innocence, or arrival.

It stands as a witness—to stolen ground, shared breath,

and the quiet truth that belonging is not a right we take,

but a responsibility we practice.

May this land be tended, protected, and remembered

not as a possession,

but as a living home we hold in common.

— Flower InBloom