From card games and Legos,
towns of plastic people,
an architect of those tiny bricks.

From apple trees
and “sword”-fights with snapped twigs
on a summer breeze.

From road trips,
endless hours in that suburban,
endlessly asking, “Are we there yet?!”.

From curious clumsiness,
burnt hands on stovetops,
and scraped knees on pavement.

From the frozen creek,
gliding—no—flying across the surface,
on well-worn blades.

From Michigan trails,
glittering lakes and skipping stones,
hot against my palms from the sun-scorched sand.

From grassy, unkempt fields
behind an unfamiliar school,
painted with white lines and home to an ambitious team.

From “the sticks”,
or the country, as it’s better known,
bittersweet memories follow so that wherever I may go,
forever this was home.