Eternal Stand

The hand on a statue of Jefferson Davis in the Jefferson Davis Library holds the confederate flag, blown there by the winds of Katrina, Sept. 12, 2005, in Biloxi, Miss. The historic grounds withstood the strength of Hurricane Camille in 1969, the worst recorded hurricane to hit the Mississippi Gulf Coast, but buckled under the strength of Katrina.

—CBS News caption

Some try to lynch his legacy, rip what's stitched in the nation's blood. But Jefferson won't be moved— a bold, living relic of stone. Ask the fields, ask the floods. He refuses to surrender his home. He spent his breath to keep this home.

Flew the "stars and bars," whose legacy, long after the war, is buoyed by floods of praise and staunch, southern blood. His heirs picked a slab of stone to chisel legs that won't be moved.

His rebel heart has never moved, grounded firmly in the dust of home. Dark rain dries on cheeks of stone, warmed in the sun of this land's legacy. His shriveled veins, clear of blood, yet nothing—not the vast floods

of Camille, or the fresh floods of Katrina—washes his legacy hell-bent on not being moved. Yes, even evil needs a home where roses bloom bright as blood, frame front porches made of stone.

God can't rinse the sneer from stone, as the gulf fills with blood. Rivers rage through his home, papers and books lost to the floods but the history won't be moved— hurricanes too weak for this legacy.

Presidents bow to his legacy; prejudice bequeathed by blood. Rescue squads won't be moved to save . . . bodies swollen stiff as stone. Spirits ferried by the floods to heaven, a kinder, gentler home.

Jefferson's home ravaged by floods; but his beloved legacy hasn't moved. His stone hand clutches a flag, red as blood.