I am from the net rippling after a goal, 

And sneakers rhyming with breaths, 

The first green of a new plant, 

The last petal of a dying flower. 

I am from the torn pages of a book, 

Shadows dancing on rough walls, 

Organization and chaos, 

The stench of spilled milk. 

I am from fresh garden herbs, 

And muscle burning stretches. 

The passion of fresh pine, 

The first light in the morning. 

I am from fights and squabbles, 

Failures and enclosed ashes. 

Regrets in low hanging branches, 

The sun wrestling the clouds. 

I am from old mysterious mandolins, 

And untouchable dust in crevices, 

Grinding gears of a yellow bicycle, 

the squeaks and moans of my stairs. 

I go from the smell of new shoes, 

The fresh mud at lakeshores, 

To the sound when a lightswitch flicks off at night, 

And the last word in a poem, impenetrable in ink.