I am from the rolling hills.
I am from natural light being enough.
I’m from the bluebonnets
Indian paintbrushes
and stick-a-burs on bare skin.

 

I am from fried catfish
corn on the cob
famous apple pie
John Denver and James Taylor.

 

It’s a place where I called out
look Mama, a worm
as a copperhead wiggled in my hands.
It’s a place where I hid june bugs in my overalls
and fresh dewberries stained my teeth
straight from the prickly vine.

 

It’s a place where gatherings happen around the table
to break bread.
Hands intertwined and in one voice
Come Lord Jesus, be our guest.
You never steered me wrong.
I’m from cow bones and ski boats.
I’m from memories of dear friends living on
in our laughter
and lake days.

 

We lit the pasture on fire
with our fireworks
and dreams.

I am from a place that made me feel greater
yet so small
under that blanket of celestial sprinkles
and homegrown goodness.
Where I’m from
I fell in love with words
before I knew the promises they held.
I learned to be brave
before I knew the risk it required.