I am from

from

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.

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