Rolling Hills and Old Cars

I am from winding roads,

From canopy’s of trees

And sweet scented cornfields

Going on for miles.

 

I am from old rusting cars,

Creaking with age

And stories long forgotten.

 

I am from fresh mown hay,

Drying in the sun

Being transformed into neat bales

Meant for winter feasting

 

I am from dilapidated barns,

Sagging with age

Sighing great sighs as they

Fall towards the ground.

 

I am from the country,

Free, open and beautiful

Reflecting the glory and

Majesty from above.

 

I am from Thanksgiving family reunions,

Fresh baked rolls only a grandmother could make

Joy, music, and smiling faces

Floating in memories that will last a life time.

 

I am from a vine-covered windmill,

Standing tall in the breeze

Its blades long since ceased their spinning

Left as a reminder of lifestyles passed.

 

I am from my grandfather’s house,

Shaped like a teardrop

But filled with the laughter

Of a growing family.

 

I am from a new generation,

Full of hopes and dreams,

Plans and themes

 

All soon to be made reality.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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