I was born of creek rock, Indian Soap, and chigger patches
Raised up on the dancing embers
Of a burning hot stove making dry wood
A work of art with its fiery touch
And burning appetite
I am the twang at the back of the throat
That sounds like banjoes in a july festival
Learned out of me by my hunger for a proper education
Until I fill my fuel tank with Kentucky water and shining moons
Bourbon truths on full moon liquor
The echo of generation upon generation
Rising up like muddy water
In the Kentucky River, rain drops falling
Making her grow fat and furious
The spring mud slides and roads buckling
Under the shifting weight
Of all that change
I am birthed in the firecracker pop
Of a February freeze
Winter’s fourth of July declaring
Independence from all the safety of warmth
And modern civilization
I am born of the tree frog song croaking out
On a creaking night and Katie-dids doing
What Katie-dids do, firefly Morse code
Two blinks, one blink, two blinks
Katie-did songs and tree frog revelations
A summer night on lock eight road
I am the home of all these stories
As much as they are mine
Little trailer with the built up room
And the porch light burning defiant against the night
Not a house but a home.
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