Children Poem

What I Am From

The sum of our experiences make up the person that we are. A poem filled with images of childhood.

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Published: February 2006

I am from piles of books,
filling the end of my bed,
where most people keep stuffed animals.

I am from spilled milk,
sticky cereal fingers,
and tiny, clutching hands.

I am from the rectangular circle swing:
worn, yellow, and swinging
from red ropes downstairs.
I am from concrete, damp basements,
small hills of laundry, and wooden toy boxes.

I am from coral reef bathrooms,
glass light catchers,
and windows painted for the holidays.

I am from the hiding place
behind the camelia bush,
Where we hid from parents
who knew where we were.

I am from the park,
from tall pine trees,
and sun-baked pavement.
From the gnats
that got in your face on bike rides,
and the barkdust
beneath bare feet.

I am from the big blue and white volkswagon,
the used blue carseat,
and the basketball hoop above the garage.

I am from Sunday dinners,
candles at the table, color personalized chairs, elaborate meals, and rice spills.
I am from Uncle Leo,
the Evil Gregory, his twin,
who comes out with no glasses when Uncle Leo leaves the room.

I am from talking puppies,
Daddy's pipe,
and the big red armchair.
I am from comforting laps
and soft ears to stroke.
I am from crackling fireplaces,
big, soft hands,
and homemade cookies



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