High Hopes and Impossible Dreams
Where I'm From By Tree Langdon
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.
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.
Paid subscribers can access the entire archive of my stories from the beginning, along with my poetry and every article I’ve ever written here. If you aren’t a paid subscriber, you can access the archive for free with a 7-day trial.
I love it.