I am from the fantastical worlds
created by masters of the page;
from blank pages and books never written.
I am from the second star to the right
and straight on till morning.
I am from the cherry orchards
between valleys of rolling hills of sweet grass
and below fiery skies of sunsets.
I'm from the twisted oaks
groaning against the wind
like withered old men.
I am from the scent of cut grass;
it is the smell of summer,
sharp and pungent to my nose.
I'm from the clang of the dinner bell
as my mother proclaims to the dusk:
I am from Julia Rene,
late night slumber parties and dares,
and polar bear attacks.
I'm from the Saturday morning cartoons
from fresh, warm pancakes drizzled in syrup
and silent alarm clocks.
I'm from recordings of apparitions,
long-lost sounds from the past
and faded faces and trends.
I am from the joy of Christmas,
from the remembrance of Easter,
and the knowledge of salvation.
I am from the dog-days,
brought out of the darkness
and into the constellations
of splattered stars
where I cry: