I am from rolling green hills, always flowing free with buck and doe, From the wooden floors and carpets laced with dog hair To the echo of roaring bush hogs and tractors throughout the air I am from the black mud courtesy of passing ducks I am from the little black dog who chased a more youthful self Across the kitchen, around the island, trip, fall I’m from artistry and creative souls, aged finer than wine I’m from paint, clay, and most of all, color, that has skipped me entirely From the countless books read, to the times in Youngstown I’m from warm heads in warmer laps Baked goods, Rhode Island Red hens The land of homemade everything I’m from the white oaks in the park All the way up my scars Each a distant memory I’m from collapsed