High Hopes and Impossible Dreams

Where I'm From By Tree Langdon

Blue Magical Dreams - Photo by Илья Мельниченко on Unsplash

I am from
the central plains
and the eastern lakes,
a rustic cabin on the lake
made of logs and sweat,
with sharpened axes
and piles of wood
stacked high for the winter.

I am from the weak hearts
and strong arms of men,
with the smell of liquor
on their breath,
and a treasure of beer caps
collected in a can on the wall.

I am from the hand-me-downs
and almost-fits-you,
the illness of my mother,
and the comfort
of my grandmothers’ arms,
always near, even now.

I am from poor choices
and low expectations,
high hopes and impossible dreams.

I am from
the quickening in my veins
and the defiance of my sobriety.

I am from
dirt and worms
and well-worn gumboots,
the carrots, newly picked,
brushed off and eaten on the spot.

I am from
the reading tree,
the quiet spaces in
the corners of the library,
dog-eared books,
and the kindness of strangers.

I am from the blood of nuns
and a martyred priest,
with defiance that stands
in the face of death.

I am from a streak
of stubborn will
that defends the line
in the sand.

I am from
the farthest western isles
of the northern point
of the fourth part
of the old world.

I am from
the math in nature,
the music in my heart,
and the power of the universe.

I am as deep as a river, and as big as the sky.

I am still here.

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This post was originally published in Imogene’s Notebook on Medium. It’s my response to a prompt from Debra G. Harman, MEd. , inspired by “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon.

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