Note: This is modelled on "Where I'm From", by George Ella Lyon. The words are of course my own but the structure is hers.

You are from sandspurs and breakfast-toast-n-cheese
from hippy neighbors and “The New Kid in Town”
conejo de madre and a paper-bag Indian outfit
(Brown paper, feathers
that fell to the floor, a crushed sound)
You are the
West wind; you lift leaves in your dance
They twirl like tiny spirits in your breath rushing past

You are from drawing comics, the Marvel way
From vinyl records and living room baseball
strung tennis rackets and a caught slip of paper, held up in morning light
You are from “Buddy” and shouted “bluechee”
(Sharp, sustained, it
Stopped your hand from hurtling pinecone for the kill)
In the wintertime, the frozen pond became a battleground of pucks, hockey sticks
The crack of ball connecting fiercely with wood under gathering twilight
And snow, falling softly around.

You are from Story Book Farm and the flatness of the South
From sleepless naptimes where Jersey was a dream
a rabbit hole free from fists and fires
You are from overexposed film and images made from light,
From rooftop leaps with breath held tight.
Hundred-foot tree climbs where Death danced in the oaks
(his face formed there by those leaves)
Your father’s court’s overgrown, that friend you lost, others you’ve found
But love’s in the details, and the music,
that pours through your hands

It whispers in my heart and in the air, where love lingers in sound

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