A Taste All My Own

I’m from carefree summers,


Eastham, Orleans, Falmouth,



The sound of my Father’s yard work,





And the stinging taste of salt water

I’m from crisp autumns,


Wrentham, Plainville, Attleboro,



The dreaded sound of a school bell,




And the thick rich taste of Swedish Apple pie

I’m from cozy winters,


Plainville, Wrentham, Kensington,





The crackle from the fire at my Aunt’s on Christmas Eve,




And the sticky but sweet taste of toffee





I’m from long anticipated springs,


Wrentham, Boston, Providence,



The high pitched chirp of birds who have found their way back north,




And the bittersweet taste of bunny shaped Sweetarts

The seasons may be shared by all, but the places I call home,


The sounds that I recall,

And the taste that I remember are all my own.