Where I’m From
I am from the bank of a creek that has no name;
Strawberry jam on home-made bread.
From homemade cookies to Village Inn pies.

I am from Conium Maculatum and Ranunculus Sceleratus,
Buttercup and the death of Socrates.
From a quiet hill and world authority, which has none here.

I am from snow-covered hills, red four wheelers, and green tractors;
From the creek’s gurgling laughter slowly melting into
The song of a robin at first light.

I am from pastures of horses and barns full of cats,
From big white barns,
And calf feeding before the sun rises.

I am from a country whose government is broke,
From war and peace,
And leaders whose minds are corrupt.

I am from fragments of photographs,
The faint smell of pine smoke,
And horseback rides among trees I know by name.
A kid can hardly ask to be from more.