The Indians named you Flowery Branch, most appropriately.
Nestled
on a hillside sitting high above the brook.
Sleepy
little village where the
Train-tracks
used to stop for just a moment,
Hardly
long enough to look.
Almost
missed when driving by
If
sunlight makes one blink an eye.
Causing
you to miss the charm
Which
there within her borders lie.
The
style of Simpson's grocery
Or
Where
Saturdays were made for swapping tales
And
drinking soda pop.
The
small town manufacturing...
The
bait and tackle store...
Wood
framed homes so old
Nobody
lives there anymore.
A
little slice out of the past,
This
small town by the creek.
Treasured
gemstone from our youth...
An
American antique.
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