I am from the canyon,
old river slithering fast.
From high desert browns and sagebrush greens.
from tumbleweed and roots, from winters white and bleak.
I am from pages turned at midnight,
imagination beating quicker than my heart.
From library shelves and basement schoolroom,
from the ceaseless “why?” and “what if?”
I am from that flooded Rupert yard,
an American dream from sturdy German hopes.
From “Bless us oh Lords” and rosaries,
from Protestant conversions and concordance.
I am from that crowded Kimberly house,
cousins, aunts, uncles passing full plates and laughter.
From my grandpa’s senile stories of a war he didn’t fight in,
from my grandma’s claim that sherbert counts as fruit.
I am from more history than we remember,
Puritans, a vice president,
immigrants and slave owners,
old countries and older dreams.
Crossing the Atlantic, farming Russian soil,
hands dirtied but clasped in prayer.
I am from open skies,
stars deeper than the horizon.
From the silence of the desert
to the storming roar of rain.
Part of the I Am From synchroblog at SheLoves.