I am from the swimming hole in Bybanks
And the cold mattress of Euclid
From the fox-height branches and the bird-height branches
And the people-height branches
I am from Phoebe's wild imagination
To Mary-Lou's humongous family that was as big as her heart
I am from the embarrassing journals
And the rolling hills and small green patch
I am from the blackberry kisses
From the "chickabiddy"'s and the "gooseberry"'s
And the wind that whispered,"Rush, hurry, rush"
And when it whistled,"Slow down, slow down"
I am from the unborn child that caused my mother grief
From the dust that blew in the road when she left
I am from the broken glass on the side of the hill
And from the spray of Old Faithful
I am from the Singing Tree, even when its song lasted no more
I am from driving down the same dusty road in
Gramps' red Chevrolet, my hands on the wheel
And his stroking his beagle puppy's soft coat.
From repeating this every day to leave behind the sorrow of the last
Huzza, huzza.
