Wheat Brown

It’s the small town in me

The wheat-brown tint of my hair

That hints at the carefree liberty of country living

But paints no pastoral landscapes

Over the history of the land

It’s rough hands

That move manual labour into make and model

And fold full-throttle over the flowing river

Whose combative currents carry me away

Teaching me something about acceptance

It’s the lessons I take in nature

The nickel-basin crater

That cradled my contents like a freighter

Through a nascent phase

My soft skull hardly formed for

It’s a wooden door creaking in the wind

Inviting you in to explore

The salt-circled floor

Like a superstitious shoreline

Drawn in my core

It’s my presence

Eager and attentive

Forgiving and forgetful

If you’ll permit me to say

It’s that I’m brave

It’s my compassion, my theatrics

Doling out one free admission of guilt

To the show I make of showing up

When I understand how you felt

And own my part

It’s the heart of me

It’s not that I’m inherently good

But that I try

It’s the water weight I carry

In the wells of my eyes

How they swell with life

And weep for its beauty

And want for its wellness

And mean it all truly