I AM FROM

I am from weathered pages

From hardwood floors and ceramic,

I am from the windows awash with monsoon rain,

sturdy, enduring,

fleeting light through stained glass.

I am from poppy stalks,

wavering beneath the sycamore

I'm from the misanthrope and the luddite

From not taxing your life with the forethought of grief

and

"I love you like the stars above."

I'm from quiet walks on pine needles,

where the currants grow.

I'm from the high desert and the fjord,

kringle, pozole.

From the axe that cut the ice when the river was frozen

and

the tiny slice of sky

occluded all year long.

From the garage lit by tungsten,

from river stones

and

le petit prince on the bottom shelf,

and the upholstery in the crv.

drifting now

through fog

drifting

toward the sea