For Auntie Di

Where I'm From

I am from books,
from They Loved To Laugh,
and Anne of the Island,
and Little Women,
and A Severe Mercy.

I am from Ganzan, and Biscay, and Sunbonnet,
from Easthaven, and Woodleigh,
from mushrooms growing in the playhouse,
from teepees in the backyard, wigwams in the South,
from fir tree cabins and rosebush castles.

I am from the manzanitas, the magnolias, the huckleberries,
from the Story Tree, and foxgloves, and bleeding hearts,
I am from old-fashioned roses clambering over the derelict barn,
from the Rose Cottage.

I am from readers and walls of books,
from Carole and Portinga,
from the Qualls' Nest,
from our own Alphabet Soup.

I am from homeschooling and big families,
from late nights laughing,
and impulsive swing dancing,
and from the time Papa Jim cried because we were all there.
All praying.

I am from forty-six cousins.

From "London fog!" and,
"Once upon a time,"
And, "I love you."

I am from Easter egg hunts by a busy road, small classrooms,
a giant nine feet high (they stuck a sticker on the wall to prove it).
I am from praise choruses and hymns,
And Mama's Bible-time voice in the morning.
I am from Question Marks,
and I am from Exclamation Points.

I am from wooden shoes and windmills,
from glass blowers and a coat of arms for bravery,
from warriors and reservations,
and from a Virginia plantation that collected its own ghost.
I am from Twelve Boy Curry and homemade, wholewheat bread.
I am from two continents, three countries, four nations.

From the afternoon walks down rusty train tracks,
from Egyptian burials and calligraphy eyebrows and the Ancients' Club.
From the afternoons beneath our Tree
(telling about Lanika and Jaques; about the red-eyed bat and the cave; about the minotaurs and the skunk soup).
From the afternoons I read Paradise Lost on my stomach in the sunshine.

I am from elaborate scrapbooks, ten journals, dusty boxes of photographs in the back cupboard.
I am from a briefcase of letters. Handwritten.
I am from an unfinished wooden box:
from dried grass bracelets, and brittle pine needles, and a bachelor's button that has lost its saffron petals.

I am from the covey of quail scuttling down the road,
always moving,
always protecting,
always together.


H-T. Sparrow, A Circle of Quiet, thank you for your beautiful models of this poem.

To write your own, please visit this template.