Where I'm From

I am from cast iron skillets, from 8 O'Clock Coffee and Ann Page pies.
I am from the bermuda lawned, white columned, brick Colonial with The Yard of the Month sign.
I am from the crepe myrtle, the azalea, the sweet gum tree, the muscadine vine.
I am from huge holiday dinners served on lace tablecloths
with a side dish of angry words,
from quiet stoicism,
from Scottish clans and fiery Irish women.
I am from every hair in place.
and the long hours necessary for the job to be done.
From being chosen and being a burden.
I am from hellfire and damnation. And the sweet, sweet Spirit.
I'm from the city on the river and islands braving northern seas, from corn bread and red velvet cake.
From the feeder of mud pies, the untaken photograph, and the donkey ridden to school.
I am from albums with crumbling pages and disintegrating photo negatives, the cracked leather Bible stuffed with newspaper clippings,
a pocketwatch in a belljar,
the clock of six houses,
the treasures too great for a will.


I found this writing exercise at Snoozelets. Wil's blew me away, and I wanted to try it myself. Here's the template if you'd like to try it yourself: Where I'm From.

poetry