Home

I am from ocean air and silver fog.

I am from marshes, blue herons, and white egrets.

I am from Eucalyptus holding winds at bay, piebald cows blanketed in mist
 lichen on ghostly fences.

I am from otters, whitecaps, and the sea spray of a whale’s journey.

I am from Sunday beach picnics —
 golden agates, sand dollars,
 salt resting on my lips.

I am from sandy feet, sand dabs —
 turretted sandcastles.

I am from koi ponds and dinner-plate dahlias —
 casting dreams into wishing wells.

I am from bakeries and marzipan lingering in books —
 farmers market flowers wrapped in crisp brown paper and joy.

I am from small corner stores —
 Starburst bought with pocket change
 and lint.

I am from cherry blossoms, toy boxes, fins and feathers —
 chocolate dipped cones.

I am from banana-seat bikes, jump ropes, and pink-wheeled roller skates:
 friends turned enemies, turned friends again.

I am from rainbows, oil-slicked puddle-jumping, cool garden-hose sips —
 skinned knees.

I am from salamanders, timbered treehouses —
  the crunch of dry maple leaves.

I am from lemony buttercups, coffee can potions, dog baths —
 sprinkler runs.

I am from the trill of tiny hummingbird wings, dew on spider webs —
 frost crystals on green grass.

I am from gingerbread houses, sunny porches,
 purple doors.

I am from stained glass and sawdust —
 the house my father built.

I am from dense gray clouds and tall trees —
 deep roots, shaking earth,
 and solid ground.