I come from the green winters,
the beady drops of sweat
running like lawnmowers
down the side of a face.
The bugs, bugs, bugs
and freakish hailstorms
of the way-down-south.
I come from the trash-can lid
that I made a sled and took flight on
soaring over the inch-thick ice.
I am from howdy-land and yeehaw-city,
but the thing is,
they really weren't.
I come from a fascination with rocks,
the round ones with the white stripes
and the white ones with the round stripes.
I am from bee-stings and wasp-nests,
and the kind ointments that were
whispered into my battle wounds.
Down the side of a cliff,
running like lawmowers,
the beady drops of sweat
come from green winters.