I am from an old beaten up cloth swing
From cloth diapers and glass bottles.
I am from the broken down siding gray and cracked.
It felt gritty under my weak hands.
I am from the dandelions growing rogue around the yard,
Waiting to be picked.
I'm from the small meals
And side glances from jealous siblings and peacekeeping parents.
I'm from the collecting cans
And saving what can be saved.
From "Save some for later"
And "Why don't you eat at your friends house tonight?"
I'm from the same second-hand dress as last week,
And sitting in the back pew.
I am from Welch and the towering mountains.
From flitters and gravy,
From the stories pa told to keep our minds preoccupied.
From the love that ma gave us to make up
For what we didn't have.
I'm from the card board box in the attic.
I am from perseverance, and surviving.
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 4:03 PM UTC
I am from an old beaten up cloth swing
From cloth diapers and glass bottles.
I am from the broken down siding gray and cracked.
It felt gritty under my weak hands.
I am from the dandelions growing rogue around the yard,
Waiting to be picked.
I'm from the small meals
And side glances from jealous siblings and peacekeeping parents.
I'm from the collecting cans
And saving what can be saved.
From "Save some for later"
And "Why don't you eat at your friends house tonight?"
I'm from the same second-hand dress as last week,
And sitting in the back pew.
I am from Welch and the towering mountains.
From flitters and gravy,
From the stories pa told to keep our minds preoccupied.
From the love that ma gave us to make up
For what we didn't have.
I'm from the card board box in the attic.
I am from perseverance, and surviving.
Written from the point of view of a small, poor looking child from a photograph, for a creative writing class. Based on the writing styles of George Ella Lyon
