Montana Is My Muse

January 10, 2020

I am from dust storms,

From wheat and whiskey.

I am from the chipped off paint on the back of the house

(White, dirty, whistling in the wind).

I am from the shrubs,

The Bitterroots

The colors barely vibrant enough to remember.

I’m from homemade meals and blisters,

From Rilla and Bob.

From stubborness and

speaking too loud

From “Get to the point” and “Okay, be quiet.”

I’m from church on Sundays and prayers in the evening

I’m from Billings and Forsyth,

Elk meat and waffles.

From my Grandma’s promotion to being principal,

From my Grandpa hunting every winter.

In a box hidden far out of sight is a stack of old letters,

Written too quickly by distant relatives,

Symbolizing the meaning of family.

I am from these wrinkled letters,

Short but dignified,

Connecting us together, no matter how far we go.

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