I am from the cluttered back room,
the one that I made a home of.
Nestling into familiar.
I am from the craft closet, filled with possibility
and the box of new crayons, that inspired me.
Their perfect symmetry,
colorful and bold.
Watching four siblings grow up,
fairly dividing the Pirouettes,
and a myriad of bad jokes.

I am from the fall winds,
tussling hair with cold hands,
leaves dancing to its rhythm.
A jacket drawn tight,
my shell against the outside.
I'm from Brust and Snicket,
Rowling and Moorcock,
whose words awed me in their grandeur.
I'm from a clutter of successes and mistakes,
feelings i’ve made a home of.