It's a sunny Sunday afternoon —celebratory day: the sun hadn't visited your city's sky in ages— and you're out in the flea market. Browsing the offerings among the throng of people: old things, new
...
[+]
I am from colorful socks
and slick wooden floors,
Sun-bleached carpet and bookshelves
Out of well worn words whispered
Into my cotton pillow sheets.
I am from red clay and cold creeks
Where we pretended we were surviving
All on our own.
I am from store-bought sugar cookies
And old reclining chairs.
I am from the lingering smoke in the crisp air
And rocks that look like faces,
From fireplaces and black bears,
Crows that cackle and goldfish that hum.
I'm from a failed heart and a failed marriage,
From a farm boy who read under covers
And a Student Council Representative
Who left snow and slush for sweat and sun.
Scrapbooks are out of fashion now,
And the faces that crafted mine are lost
To memories that are corroded
In failing minds.
I am from every fork in the road
Miles before I was even a thought--
I carry the dust from their feet
And pray to make it a bit farther.
and slick wooden floors,
Sun-bleached carpet and bookshelves
Out of well worn words whispered
Into my cotton pillow sheets.
I am from red clay and cold creeks
Where we pretended we were surviving
All on our own.
I am from store-bought sugar cookies
And old reclining chairs.
I am from the lingering smoke in the crisp air
And rocks that look like faces,
From fireplaces and black bears,
Crows that cackle and goldfish that hum.
I'm from a failed heart and a failed marriage,
From a farm boy who read under covers
And a Student Council Representative
Who left snow and slush for sweat and sun.
Scrapbooks are out of fashion now,
And the faces that crafted mine are lost
To memories that are corroded
In failing minds.
I am from every fork in the road
Miles before I was even a thought--
I carry the dust from their feet
And pray to make it a bit farther.