October 8th, 2023

Where I am From

I am from an old, wooden barn with faded red paint. 

From dust collected in the creases of worn out, leather english saddles,

 from sawdust, pitchfork calluses and stubborn horses.

I am from aching arms, frozen fingers and toes

 and naive fits thrown at the work to be done. 

From the sand of an arena, the echo of shod hooves on cement

 and of dirt and summertime sweat. 

I am from the snowy forest in the icy winters of the early 2000s, 

From the middle of a cornfield with nothing between the stars and I but the thin line of the horizon. 

Under the stars the bullfrogs bellow and I am from the bank of the pond,

 standing with my feet in the water, hands darting out to catch them in the dark. 

I am from weathered foot holds in the wobbly backyard fence I used to climb.

 From running around in the woods, pretending to hunt and talk to magical creatures I imagined. 

From forest trails riddled with roots and burrows, visited by deer and foxes. 

I am from sleepless nights and coyotes howling too close to my window. 

At dusk the old bell rings, and I am from the back porch where it sat, calling us to dinner. 

I am from wooden floors that gave me splinters and tough skin on my feet, 

from a basement with ghosts and spiders, 

and climbing up on my garage roof to sit on my throne of shingles and watch the night sky shine over the realm of my childhood.