Within Me

By Andrew R. Duckworth

Within me is the memory
Of a million ancestors
Whose story shouts
From the soil, from the ashes,
From the sea, from the plants.
Within me are people of the plains
Hunting bison on horseback
Until the horse was stolen.
Within me are people from overseas
Crossing oceans for lives
Of their own, holding tight
To tradition and family.
Within me are people of royalty
From an island who moved
To mainland, traveled north,
Lost to time and history.
Within me are humble people
From a green isle,
Who worked the land,
And took to sea,
Made their way to the states.

In the panhandle, I surveyed
The land, looked upon the plains,
Looked upon rugged tears
In the earth and understood
How this land was holy,
Held purpose, saw a myriad
Of stories unfold as if
Dancing upon the flickering flames
Of a campfire.

Looking out at the coastline
Of Napoli and Surriento,
I felt the majesty of ancient
Tradition beating in my chest,
Still preserved, still thriving.

One day, I will stand in Germany,
Stand in England, stand in Ireland
And experience something profound
That offers perspective,
A journey through history.

There is pride in my veins,
The good sort that gives
Moments of reflection
And permission to continue
Laying the roads that those
Who came before dared to build.