where i grew up

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
this is a poem i wrote that helps describe where i used to live.

Submitted: May 12, 2017

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Submitted: May 12, 2017



I was born a month early
learning that
you can only grow where there is room
and there is always room if you know where to find it.

Whistling the tunes of the wind that blew through the bright yellow and red leaves,
I matched my voice to the echoing of the woods
in order to prove myself to nature.
We were always competing
me against the wind, rain, and snow.
It was always winning
refusing to back down

As if that was ever an option.

But I liked to scream anyway
it was easier to feel back then
when you didn’t have to explain the reasons why
you were always wanting to scream at the sky
and demand an explanation for this restless soul
that had settled inside of you since you were a child.

I come from the woods I grew up in
right out of the babbling creeks that
were always colder in the spring than their glistening waters led me to believe.
Even still, I jumped in
Knowing the shock of the icy waters would last but a mere second
and the numbing tingle against my frozen skin
would send away the chill.

I learned the trade of harvest
through the insistent ways of my father and his father
and the fathers before them who all claimed to be right
but never said the same thing twice.
I learned not to listen to a man
when he says that his way is better
because the vegetables will either grow or they won’t
and there never has been a trick to that.
Not by man or nature
It is mostly about luck.

I took a step in every briar patch, and
scraped my knee on every rock and tree
trying to embrace the life of an adventurer.

I traveled for hours on foot
over red rust train tracks
but never truly got as far as
my own back yard.

I’ve centered myself in the light of the moon
danced under a million shining stars
and howled with the coyotes until
they were close enough to shake the leaves in the bushes around me.

And I searched for mysteries where ever I could find them,
inside the center of the old hollow tree that was struck by lightning three times
and still grew but smelled of smoke every time it was about to rain.
By the window of my bedroom where
strange lights would flash by
in an instant
cool blue, vibrant reds and greens and
simply change the temperature of the weather.
And on the old pond by my grandfather’s cabin
where fog would shape itself into spirits and
they would waltz across the water
creating pictures in my head.

© Copyright 2018 M.C. Lynnette. All rights reserved.