You are of her, in her –
And she is as essential to you
As music, or bread with butter, or whiskey.
For, music wells up in you
From some inner spring.
And bread smells to you
Like a woman’s breast,
Like the siren’s call.
And whiskey has no other names
But home, and hearth,
And a place to go.
Stories make her, create her –
And they are as much a part of you
As your cap, or your family, or friends.
For, her yarn is woven
Through your every syllable.
Your family is your tale,
Being made, again and again,
Like a woolen sweater,
Knitted differently by each set of similar hands.
Friends are your cobblestones, your steps,
Your fables of adventure, courage,
Manhood, and your path home.
She gave birth to you –
And you are made in her image,
Like the boy with freckles sprinkled on his milk white nose.
For, that child is as much a part of you
As a son is of his father, and his father before him.
You are like that youth on the midnight bus,
Grinning ‘til his face might split, eyes closed,
Lest secret delight escape too quickly.
You are her man, tall and proud,
Like a citizen, a nation,
With all that darkness and light
She has steeped in you.