I am from the little yellow doll house,
on market street,
with the crippled swing set
in the backyard,
rusted with the tears of my youth.
I am from nights spent at my
listening to bedtime stories,
that take a yellow highlighter to younger and easier times,
before they turn out the light.
I am from pointless arguments,
long nights spent talking
about everything under the sun.
Eleven years of a friendship
that should have lasted a
But most of all,
I am from an old Oak tree.
A green leaf, full of life, just waiting for
her time to entertain and please the world
with her red, yellow, and orange