This child as young so wild now understands this precious gift.. born to this precious land..
Those so troubled.. packed and ran down to shipyards.. docks.. Momma.. Dad.. and little Anne her knitting.. dolls and clocks.. Hidden hard in shipping crates.. deep in cargo holds.. escape from debts unfair.. in time.. accused so for the gold..
God was with us.. mouth of Aunt Bess came in the sailing days.. read in candlelight.. a steady voice of Christian Ways..
Quiet edit came from Momma.. Dad would grump agree.. forests.. land.. a life at hand.. a promise to be free..
Those who lived native before landfall.. that fine green shore.. knew of forest ways.. to share in joy.. food.. how to store..
Politics come to the mix.. famous tea dump days.. THE FIRST GIFT was completed.. ’83 those months and days..
Defined what one may say.. defined it as his own.. defined what owned…
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