In and Of

By Andrew R. Duckworth

I was born in a blizzard,
Ice caping the roads,
Snow drifting over
The black ice.

I was born of a beach,
Born of the west deserts,
Born of the mountains
Where my soul looked
Out over the valleys
For the first time
And sighed deep.

I was born of a garden
When my eye first caught
The cherry tomato red
Against the green
And saw potential,
Saw work blossom
And yield fruit.

I was born of a book
When my eye wouldn’t leave
The yellowed page and
Heard words spoken
Centuries earlier
On an English stage
As if they were new.

I was born of tradition
So strong and so aged
That the words still echo
In daily Mass, Recognizing
Fault and the beauty of
Grace extended from His
Right hand.

I was born of my father’s wisdom
Setting examples he never had
To speak- examples delivered
In action and genuine love
For those around him,
Family and friend
And stranger.

I was born of my mother’s warmth,
Feeding children that weren’t hers
And seeing fruit grow years later,
A different type of garden
Of saplings needing
Right amounts of
Light and rain.

I was born in a blizzard,
But I was born of many things
In many places,
Through many faces
When my eyes and ears
We’re open to my surroundings.