I have traded Mediterranean blue for the Ohio green of the valley,
Nights gazing at the star-filled dome on a Greek island shore
For the copper brown expanse of oaks, hickory, and maples,
The concrete sidewalks of busy city streets of Thessaloniki
For the quiet forest pathways by the Cuyahoga, twisting and pulling me in
The deep mysteries of nature, a language I learned to love,
A city-girl from a foreign place, now a native of my new home.
Take this, my son, and remember my footprints on this muddy riverbank,
Follow them along the Yellow Creek and Brandywine Falls,
Trace the layered past, Berea stone, Bedford and Cleveland shale,
Seneca, Wyandot, coyote calls at night, echoing in the wilderness,
Listen to the call of the cardinals in February, flashes of red in snow-covered woods,
Take in all the sounds, visions, and smells that seeped deep in my bones,
Grafting a new me out of this place, breathing words I didn’t know
Were in my blood, adding to the mix of newcomers who stay,
Transplants that take roots and thrive, and birth new lives.
This is what I leave you:
The inheritance of this valley, the crooked heart of the Cuyahoga,
The love of the open fields, the marriage of Greek fire and Ohio winters,
The ears and eyes for what this earth has gifted us, a forgiving mother
Wounded by our arrogance, a warrior that needs your hands to do your part
To plant, to save, to preserve, no matter where you live,
Remember your mother and follow her footprints.
—
Angela Bilia taught writing and literature at The University of Akron, Kent State University, and Elon College, NC. Her poetry had appeared in the Kent Quarterly, Luna Negra, The Poet, and in A Gathering of Poets (Kent State University Press, 1992). She lives in Stow, Ohio.
