Where I'm From

I Am From (an exercise in identity)

I am from the gas stove, from Tetley tea and early mornings.

From the dead-end street, the smell of bread baking, the sound of pages turning.

I am from small neighborhoods, meatballs, cousins who are brothers.

I am from the sassafrass tree, and games of Orange Orangutan, and watching clouds in the middle of the field.

I am from picnics, from pie crust that tastes like a cookie, from long conversations.

I am from the roses, the smell of new-cut grass, the carrots that taste like the sun.

From the because I am your mother, that’s why

and the don’t read in the dark,

and the shut that light off if you’re not going to be in there

and the nothing could ever make me stop loving you.

I am from (mostly) solemn Sunday mornings, from hymns and funny faces made from the pulpit.

I am from the icy depth of the baptistry, the summer breeze through the willow at ten to noon, from the wild and holy peal of bells.

I'm from the East, from varenyky and latkes and the bread of three risings. 

I am from the plains of the Midwest and further, from the deep of the mountains. 

I am from the silver thimble, the bamboo stars, the yellow bowl.

I am from the wedding band made thin with years.

(Want to make your own poem? Grab the template here. Mine is edited from an older version and leaves out some of the detail the original template asks for.)