To be a Vermonter

Our grandpa's flannel, red and black will cross
                   and blend in wrinkled smiles, passed
through generations. We've just hobbled
over the peak, and the red leaves march
          down, down, down the mountain with us.
                                            Because I'm still figuring out who I am.

     Touching my tongue to the frostnipped
metal, tasting the syrup-to-be.
I'll laugh when the first snow lands on
                            my nose and catch the rest in my flannel.
Because I'm still figuring out who I am.

When the Southerners trolley up and
           shiver, I'll make a barefoot snow angel.
Then, out of courtesy, I'll hand them
my extra puffy jacket, I've got one too many.
                                                Because I'm still figuring out who I am.

I'll chop wood myself, and it won't matter
                that I'm a girl, because we're all real tough
         anyway. Then I'll light a fire and chug some
                                    hot cocoa with two jumbo marshmallows.
Because I'm still figuring out who I am.

The seasons will pass through, and I'll
     tie my hair in two braids. I won't bother
with the outlets in the city more than
                                     I need to. And if I do, I'll make a trip out of it.
Because I'm still figuring out who I am.

           We'll dance around the fire and sip pure syrup
     and laugh at the leaf peepers and brandish
our flannel and catch snowflakes on our
                       tongues like magic, and we'll smile. I'll smile.
Because I'm a Vermonter, after all.