Where One's From

Every morning, an old god exhales,

And the waters outside my window break in crescents.

As you rise, so do I,

To shrug oceans of sheets from my shoulders,

To take your hands in mine,

I bring them to my lips and kiss coffee from Mountain Daisies.

And slowly, with sleep in my eyes,

I inhale a perfume of soil and grip thick fingers of Fern.

I’ll never grow tired of waking up with you.

Afterall, home is you.

Home is you blinking city lights into my room,

Washing my floor with amber glow.

When visitors admire your beauty,

A beauty that's industrious yet natural,

I lean in and lie to them.

I tell them that behind your obsidian buildings,

You hide giants in ancient forests.

I can’t ever do how you speak any justice,

So I keep that part of you to myself.

Especially how you say my name.

How three syllables fall with a feeling that’s powdery and white like snow.

It’s a sound I chase,

I chase it across the footsteps of giants,

Through alleys beneath Pike Place,

Over rainbow streaked pavements,

I flow into the smoky streetcars,

Disturbing Douglas fir and their haloed leaves,

Just to collect pieces of my name from you,

Into a jar that I take with me to the port,

Down by the market.