Where am I from?
I am from the changing of the seasons,
The safe feeling of my mother’s hug,
And the fear of change.

I am from roaming the forest,
scarlet shoulders from the afternoon sun,
and laying in the road, admiring the stars.
I am from scraped knees, legs adorned with scars,
And the soothing sound of windchimes on the porch.

I am from the dynamic colors of changing leaves,
the metal ladder at Barthel's Farm,
and the hole in the toe of my old Airwalks.
I am from the voice of Jim Croce,
and the dim light of apple cinnamon candles.

I am from the bitter temperatures of the north,
swamp feet and fuzzy socks,
and the feeling of drinking apple cider.
I am from the patches of black ice,
and the cracked, barren lips.

I am from the fresh starts,
budding rosebushes in my Nana’s yard,
and sitting on the porch, listening to the rain.
I am from waking up before the world, savoring to the quiet,
and the sunshine returning from it’s annual slumber.

Where am I from?
I am from the changing of the seasons,
The safe feeling of my mother’s hug,
And the fear of change.