Ancestors by Ada Limón

I've come here from the rocks, the bonelike chert,     obsidian, lava rock. I've come here from the trees-chesnut, bay laurel, toyon, acacia, redwood, cedar

one thousand oaks    that bend with moss and old man's beard.
I was born on a green couch on Carriger Road between    the vineyards and the horse pasture.

I don't remember what I first saw, the brick of light     that unhinged me from the beginning. I don't remember

my brother's face, my mother, my father.
    Later, I remember leaves, through car windows, 
through bedroom windows, through the classroom window, 
the way they shaded and patterned the ground, all that    power from roots. Imagine you must survive

without running? I've come from the lacing patterns of leaves, 
    I do not know where else I belong.