I’m from the smoking embers of the Rockies,
And breaking sticks on the ground.
I’m from the forget me not’s you hold in your pocket,
The drowning of yelling outside my closed doors,
The midnight strolls,
And gleaming ponds filled with timed creatures,
Little trinkets always hidden,
And always found again.

I’m from long night’s awake,
Looking at the moon,
Wishing away,
The many memories of wondering hatred,
Awakened by the screeching of the young ones.

I’m from shattered windows,
And rainy, sorrowful days,
I’m from the swing set chains blowing in the wind,
The long sunsets over the rocky horizon
Finding love, and then loosing it.

I’m from violent storms in my house,
Eating newly fresh apples,
And blazing fires, and shouting people.
I’m from the first flower of spring
And the cold bitterness from the winter