I’m from a place where the grass crunches like gravel under each step in the winter.

The pain of frostbite is something we’ve gotten used to

and even though we’ve lived through summers and springs of cold seasons

we still talk about last night’s abrupt break in our sleep

because we dared change position and

dipped an unclothed limb into an ice cold puddle of untouched bed sheet.


I’m from a place where

you either rub your nose raw or let snot peek-a-boo

half of the time. Half of the time starting in the morning

a thick fog cloaks most of everything and only a small town like ours

where the town planning and streets are so simple, where change

happens so slowly and the routine is so set,

only a small town like ours could manage

two nights back to back, one black one white.

I’m from a place where snow is a likelihood, a gift and a curse.


Before I lived here it was a Christmas thing

A television America thing.

Very few joys hold a candle to a couple of June days,

without work, without school, without electricity.

Warmth is synonymous with paraffin, gas or burning wood.

For better or worse, you get to know the people you live with a little better

Without the distractions of television and so on,

Just our talking shadows dancing with dancing candle flame against the wall.


I’m from a place where

whole mountains burn well into the night.

A furious living orange feeding on dry grass

Like lava from a volcano.

Day by day more and more mountains and fields that started

The season green, became amber turn black.

We mark the days by them mark the season

when the green starts coming back we know it is spring.

And an end meets with a beginning, death with birth,

such is life, such is it to live it here.