I never dreamed of writing, reading yes, writing never. I struggled through life with a lot of things, then in 2012 I made the decision to move the farm in Indiana to Texas.

We fell into Texoma (Whitesboro) and when I fell asleep, I felt like I came home. It was wierd, because I thought it was just from exhaustion, the move and whatever.

6 months go by, I do my one of my last trips for work (one more was left actually in 2017. I drive back from DFW and I sigh. Thank god I am home. I never felt like that in my birth city/area or in Indiana.

I believe as toxic as the pollen and grasses and trees are to me, they also "triggered" a response to dislodge whatever demon was sucking on my soul.

Over the next few years, the land and the people (Texoma folks are "the nicest" people I have met in the USA), I got therapy and started healing.

Then I found poetry this year, and boom.

Last night, I am on a personal trek that is highly personal and towards finalizing the last repairs on my masculinity when I had to meditate a bit.

So this poem makes sense.