I am from pickle jars
from poetry and
handkerchiefs.
I am from the peach tree
that bore fruit only once
(and it was hard,
unsatisfying
and only good for
dropping)
I am from the cast-iron
kettle
apple-butter makers
whose recipe is now a
secret
like their silent,
deadened songs.
I'm from wood shavings and
sewing machines
from Billy P and Martha.
I'm from the Fall Festival
Princess
and Miss Dictionary,
from hot chocolate &
soldiers.
I'm from beside the rivers
of Babylon
and more than half a
soul
and knowing what comes
next.
I'm from Paint Your Wagon
and the Gateway,
gray rock and pipe
tobacco.
From the scrapes on my
cheek
that Pappy's scruff would
leave
the dents in my stomach of
granddaddy's
nightstick and radio.
Back in the woods was a
house
where when I could get in
I could see the four
worlds merging
of our generations
and watch the road leading
down the mountain--
from the streams
where memories float like
newspapers
for me to gather.