They would hardly call me rustic,
though my knuckles can bleed.
They would hardly see my strength,
though my face has stubble.
I am a mixture of father and brother,
a little mother thrown in,
the well-lit room of my growing up
and all the family warnings
lighting my way, stone by stone.
They would hardly call me rustic,
though I have been stepping all
this way, mostly blind, sometimes
scrambling, uncertain, unsure,
but in perpetual motion.
