I am from a place where the sky looked charming.
Crisp and vastly white, like a newly opened book.
The mountain is my habitat.

I am from the roots of the green and white pine trees.
I am the child of fresh air and endless skies.
To be one with earth.

I am from the vacant windows.
Which are pressed by a misty wonderland.
A glimpse of the crackling branches.

I am from the swig of a creamy café.
Marbled with foam with hints of vanilla.
My stressors being taunted by relaxation.

I am from the floor engraved in my skin.
My calloused arches
are my only carriage.

I am from the pristine hills.
Tinted from the wilderness,
which will never be forgotten.

(R.H.)