Where I Come From

I come from rotting bean vine mountains
my dog and I scale,
siphon tubes,
black beetles fleeing water.
I come from 5 cent cokes in the park,
Spinach ripped by hail
for my dad to replant.
I come from bread in the oven,
my mom dancing and singing in the kitchen,
from “Ladies don’t say ‘shut up’”
(Be quiet is appropriate),
from hot dust between my toes,
steering the tractor from my dad’s lap,
hiding in the wheat field.
I come from salting ice
around 4th of July ice cream,
pine towers and stream-chilled watermelon,
endless books, daydreams,
All carried in my bones
even when I forget to remember.
.-= Lynne Tolk´s last post … Ever Integrating =-.

The salt child walked further and further into the water of the great Ocean, dissolving with each step and at the end exclaimed: “Ah, now I know who I am!”