Family Tree

Grandpa was a preacher
he wrote his heart down
and read it out loud
every Sunday.

Then my mother,
with her two-toned hair
like the masks of Greek tradegy,
who loved drama
and told stories at libraries
and around campfires.

And now me,
in a red skirt and black boots,
reading my poetry
to a crowd of strangers sipping coffee.

The love of words is in my blood.
It's been passed down to me.
It's the fruit of my family tree.

by Missie Peters

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