I’m from the sunny day in november
and from my pears,
and from Seven Nation Army
beating in my chest.

I’m from mother’s meatballs
and mashed potatoes,
from dull colored concrete
and green grass of soccer,
from the backyard rowanberry tree
and autumn apparel.

I’m from Superman
and Modesty Blaise,
from Dostojevskij
and poetry.

I’m from the sea and bare feet
and winter ice lake skates,
from grandpa´s barn that kneels,
from old photographs of strangers.

I’m from a night
drunk at the local bar
and the morning after,
from philosophy
and my mind’s game.

I’m from the rain shelter in the backyard
and the bell from the church.
I am the lungs of the forest.
I carry the silence of forgotten names.

I’m made of metal,
hammer echoes of tradition,
wood carved into memory,
threads sewn with love,
binding me to the past.

I’m from the worried unknown.
I’m from someday -
fade to bleach.