I am from the flowing river that touches many lands,
from Mount Vernon gun fires and the Alamo.
I am from the joyful picnics under the sweet smelling sakura trees
(warm apple pie, delectable kolaches, it tasted like home.)
I am from America’s Fruit Basket
the place of my origin
whose massive suspension bridge I remember
as if it were my own.
I’m from the Razorbacks and the Saint Louis Cardinals,
from Lt. Colonel and Space Force.
I’m from a loving family and
From “I love you” and “Great Job!”
I’m from momentous page turners
with a story to share
and ten of those tales I can read myself.
I’m from exquisite dogwood and sweet-scented magnolias,
silky smooth kimonos and riggity, rackety cable cars.
From the friends lost
to the PCS, and the text messages
supposed to keep me in touch.
Under my bed is a clear, enthralling stream
spilling purple stones of memories,
a fluffy cloud of both the good and the bad
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments-
lost before they were found-
I am a dandelion moving with the family tree.