Where I'm From

I am from the written word,

From Hemmingway and Dickinson.

I am from the window in the kitchen—

A reflection of family dinners and a painting of children on swing sets,

(It felt more like a mirror than a window).

I am from the grass blades,

The lilac bush

Whose fragrant purple blossoms fall

and re-grow in spring.

I’m from the tuck-ins before dreams and the need to feel loved.

From Dawson and Saner.

I’m from the early risers

and the late arrivals.

From call me when you get there and

You can always come home.

I’m from the old oak pews of the church

With deep trenches

worn with verses from long ago.

I’m from the glitz of the Motor City and the shores of the Cayman Islands,

Peanut butter and jelly [without the peanut butter] and a hot dog [with only the bun,]

From the day Dad got

on one knee to ask Mom to

the day Jeff did the same for me.

On my dresser there is a journal:

pages of sunrays between clouds,

of the breeze after the rain.

I am these words—

a collection of verse—

snapshots of what has been and what will be.