I think I really like this one.

Fireflies

I was born on the Roanoke
which feeds the Potomac
that twists and bends it's way
to the Atlantic. It started in the
Appalachians, my mighty river,
as young and clean as I did.
I was born in Shenandoah innocence.

My cradle was arms of oaks—knotted
tentacles of mingling trees wrapped
haphazardly in a lover's embrace.
Momma hung bluegrass chandeliers
above my head. It twinkled folk songs
and spirituals in the waning sunlight.

My earliest memories are made
of log fences and ukuleles,

The smell of wood-smoke and rain
And the fugitive sight of a firefly's burning embers.

They said it was my destiny
to want to follow the sun;
they said that there was more to take in
the further west you go.
Now the rivers run cement, scrapping
the sandy ground. It's easy to run
the path of least resistance when
you don't meat any at all. But
all you grow are stucco boxes
they hardly give your room to put down roots.

It occurs to me that I am the Potomac,
with my feet buried deep
in the tobacco-fertile ground
of the cool green mountains.
I have stretched west to the path
of least resistance, and in
the suspension of twilight it occurs to me:
The one thing I still miss are the fireflies.