Alas, an Introduction

This poem is about me,
which is why I don’t trust it.
Introductions are necessary, I suppose,
but I approach them like a three-day-old salad—
wilting, overdressed,
forgotten in the back of the fridge,

until desperation calls.

With that warning in place:

I am a fourth-generation Vermonter,

rooted in the Northeast Kingdom,

where seasonal beauty and brutal honesty 

walk hand in hand.

I admire our quirky artisans, 

sincere farmstands,

and fence-post tales.

I mirror this place’s stubborn resolve,

caught between progress and nostalgia.

I married a city girl
far out of my league,
and fathered two kids
whom I (somehow) didn’t ruin.

When I’m not working,
I am mowing, raking, or shoveling—
depending on the season.

There should be more to say–

but the locals value silence.

As such, when pondering myself,

it feels that less is more.