I am from a fidget,
from train tracks and awkward starts.
I am from the field between the swampland–
floral, wild, warm,
the afternoon on my elbows, my lips,
my shoulder blades, the column of my spine.
I am from the sound of civilization in the distance,
I am from the television,
from Epcot 2000,
from the tiny piece of pencil lead
stuck in the back of
my hand on a Sunday
by the little brother
I’m from kayaks and white elephants,
from tea and temper.
I’m from the fiercely competitive
and the fiercely kind,
from over the rims of eyeglasses
and “stop biting your nails.”
I’m from time and eternity,
taught to cast myself entirely
into the arms of His loving Providence.
I’m from a piece of paper.
I am from zucchini bread and wheat beer,
pumpkin pie and apple pie,
and arguments about which one’s better.
I am from the deceit and dedication of two very different army men
just trying to make it home
to their wives.
I am from a strange generation,
the product of my environment.
I am from 2f4b66 and 2c3762.
from three others
I am from the twelve of them, and
I am going to be okay.