I am from the wind whistling through the branches, 

And the echoes of a frantic voice in an empty valley. 

The dust that pirouettes through the air, 

And the last pale light as the sun performs its vanishing act. 

I am from proud purple bruises blooming like spring flowers, 

And the crunch as shoes crush bits of nature one by one, 

The smack of a worn cleat against a ball, 

And the cheers of a happy collective of oblivious kids. 

I am from heart-racing frantic hope, 

And the pound of a raging migraine, 

The hoarse scream of a raised voice, 

And melodic lullabies wavering gently. 

I am from the one missing puzzle piece, 

And a coffee stain painting new furniture. 

The torn leaves that skydive in autumn, 

And the crunch of dying sun-dried grass. 

I am from memories curled into nooks and crannies, 

And a long twisted history of lucky chances, 

The changes catastrophizing through lives, 

And from promises that break, shatter, and bleed like glass. 

I am from the pop of an August raspberry against your tongue, 

And the fresh breeze over a mud puddle after a storm, 

The tornado of emotions clashing at dusk, 

And the thump of a closing book after the story is done.