I am from a town,

A town so small
that it seems quite large,
from the gnarled crab apple tree,
that guards the field of long uncut grass.

I am from a homemade log cabin,
the logs fighting for space
in the tightly packed log walls,
from decades of rusty bikes,
that creak as they stumble down the dirt roads.

I am from the hidden closet in the attic,
that holds many years of forgotten memories,
from the sun faded books on handcrafted shelves,
that contain many stories from my kin’s past.

I am from the summer blackberries,
that glimmer like little black diamonds in the sun,
from the fresh raspberries defended by long thorns,
that feel like hundreds of tiny grenades
exploding on your tongue.

I am from mossy brick wells,
that clean water flows into,
through the veins of the earth,
from abandoned stones walls in the woods,
that were built by farmers many years ago.

I am from the small plate of land,
that is nestled between mountains looming over me,
from the camouflaged owls at twilight,
watching with attentive eyes over the darkness.

I am from the abstract blue streams,
That dive and dodge through the rocks,
A deer weaving in between the tall oaks,
from the forest of pines,
that sway in the wind as one.