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Where I'm From

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I’m from show heifers, market hogs and fat steers,
from brushes without bristles and combs without teeth, 
I’m from a farmer’s tan that never fades, bruises in an ugly shade of purple, and a blonde ponytail in the summer sun.
I’m from “Is he fat enough?”, “Are you sure she won't kick?” and “Is she sound enough?”

I’m from a white, four board fence, green pastures
and walks down a gravel driveway.
From brooms with half a handle and boots with holes in the sole.
I’m from Miranda Lambert, Luke Bryan and Jason Aldean on the radio.
I’m from nights spent in the barn working, questioning, dreaming.

I’m from elbow grease, fresh pine shavings, and a rainbow of halters hanging on a gate. 
From the rattle of fans and kittens bouncing around the barn,
I’m from a show stick with dents, bends and chipped paint.
I’m from the musty smell of hay bales, grain sweet enough to eat and hose water chilling my throat.

I’m from two toned trucks and trailers packed with supplies by dad’s expert eye.
From cowboy hats and champion slaps,
I’m from dirt crusted on my knees and too excited to sleep.
I’m from show boxes stuffed with combs, sprays, and power tools.

I’m from county fairs with livestock, tilt a whirls and cream puffs.
From the swirl of my stomach on show morning.
I’m from a bead of sweat on my forehead and hands that shake before I step into the ring.
I’m from gold writing on a purple banner
from my smile that says, “It has been a good, long day.”






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