I am from pinewood boxes and afghan rugs
from the beaten path between her house and mine.
From the wide brick wall, the morning song
and the warmth of her fur against my palm.
I am from the tulip, fiery red and
the willow tree whose long gone limbs
I remember as if they were my own.
From Sunday dinners and freckled skin
from teachers, carpenters and travelling men.
I am from distant shores and crossed continents
and those who took root in wild land.
From endless cups of Red Rose tea and long talks
across the kitchen table, across the generations.
I am from barefoot summers and we believe in you
from the chipped silver mirror and four hugs a day.
From the carrying place and the Elizabeths and
cranberry coffee cake and Teddy’s Christmas stuffing.
I am from the girl in the strawberry dress
whose heart beats for her children.
From the faded journal filled with secrets
and ancient petals hidden somewhere
under a bed, in a closet, within us.