I am from the land of the willow tree
With branches like emerald studded whips
In possession of a trunk, knobby and old.
From the pipe stem overlooking the summer sunsets that appear to be of plum
Red, violet, humid, and cool.
I come from the dark crimson brick house
Scarred and rough like fresh sandpaper.
Where is my home?
Home is where my mother prepares for an autumn dinner with frozen peaches
For just me and my father.
Where she fixes lime-green Jell-O salad that appears radioactive
With crushed pecans trapped like tan stones in a pool of yellowish-green jelly.
I come from an infinite green forest created in the small spaces between properties.
Where light from the cracks between the iridescent green leaves warms and cleanses your skin.
A town built on moss similar to a soft, silent, natural carpet.
I discovered what home meant to me all before the time I entered any schooling.
I was transplanted in a florescent white box with two dozen of the closest strangers.
Once the time came for me to be involved in my education “home” became another vocabulary word
Time passed like discarded pages of newspaper in the cold wind before a summer storm.
First I was old enough for a community pool pass, then for middle school, now for driving.
I hope that once this incandescent education factory’s process is finished I will be able to really return to the land of the willow tree.
The land of lime-green family recipes,
Of crispy cold peaches,
Of yellow daggers made from light sent by the sun,
Of violet stained sunsets in August,
And most importantly,
I wish to return to the land of my home.