A House by a Hill
Where I am from is a cream colored house at the base of a hill.
Buzzing bees fly around lavender bushes,
we joke that someone forgot that plants grow.
The coffee machine grinds and churns for a minute to start,
and a big white dog scratches the window to bark
at the air.
Most probably think he would trample them
if he got the chance, but if we leave the front door open,
he just sits to watch and smile at all the people walking past.
Walking to tabor and the dog park that dusts shoes,
or the playground that’s home to a spinning contraption
that’s not at all new
Or the crater that used to hold concerts and
crowds, or the view of the city that reflects over reservoirs,
or the spot called owls peak where the world just stands
still; I am from that house by that hill.
But I am from more,
more than I can think of as well,
because it feels wrong to say I’m only from a house
at the base of a hill.
Cause I am from music in mornings and old instruments,
from homemade sushi, and salsa, and german pancakes.
From movies on Stark street, and gardens that overgrew,
from coffee before first driving,
and eyes that are blue.
I am from fairytale stories,
movies in stars,
and hoping for a treehouse
in a tree that’s now gone.
From naming stuffed animals,
and glass figurines,
from a tan colored Westfalia
with soft tan seats.
I am from family,
and laughter,
and unintentional worried looks,
from street lights I’ve danced under,
and lots of notebooks.
I am from a lot and a little,
and more than I’ve seen.
A house by a hill,
and
everything
in
between.