I come from an earth which shouldered itself up out of old, wild waters.
From the haunted conversations of trees, and the careful awareness that there are things slipping quiet through their shadows and standing in empty rooms, waiting to be seen.
I come from damp winds.
From old floral aprons and homebaked cakes.
From the sea cringing behind me, and the city somewhere over there, out of sight, far away. I come from the edges and the deep.
I come from leaving it all behind. And oh, needing to remember again, every now and then.