I am...

I am where the salty sea and tumultuous freshwater meet, 

The place where Lewis and Clark met their end-goal

I am in the shadow of the bridge to nowhere, 

I am made of skinned knees and gentle kisses, 

I am brown, both in hair and hands, 

Wild and carefree

I am the gentle rumble of a Harley, my feet up on the tank, 

I am well-worn books and gentle soothing tones breathing life into characters, 

Mr. Tumnus and Turkish Delight 

I am worn pink sunbonnet babies quilted with love, 

I am sun-soaked porches and ice chests. 

I am dirty feet, tents and the rumble of motorcycles

I am laughter and campfire smoke, 

Laughter and sunshine

I am a vine

Growing from strong roots and deep bonds 

note:

wow. I have not done poetry for so long that I think that part of my brain had atrophied into grey goo. This was actually a three-day process for me. I wrote the first draft after class when I was still very much thinking about it. I picked it up a few days after that and looked at it again, and then again. I then found myself edited as I was typing it up. Writing is such a process, and I forget how much work it entails when you are doing something that you are not familiar with, or have confidence in. Writing a tweet about my opinion on the newest episode of Love Island with my friends? Easy-peasy. Poetry? Oh boy, very very difficult. The colors on my photo didn't come through very clearly, but I tried out different pens to keep my brain straight on which edits went with which days.