This where I ran the dream-colored woods/ and did not know why. This where I believe/ a dog is buried. This where I danced/ in the long moonlight of a field./ This where a woman planted ghost peppers./ This where she thin her blood with root water.

Tyree Daye, Ode to Small Towns

What if the nostalgia and romance and depth of small towns is wrapped in story and truth and compassion and even a little mystery? What if a poem shows us the beauty of a particular time and place where the details bring us together in communal understanding, where we can grieve and heal and grow together? What if our relationship with ourself, our family, and our community is always personal, wherever and however we grow up? What if the relationship between small towns and cities was not adversarial? (Who benefits from that competition?) Why does the discussion of small towns resonate?

We share stories. We, each of us, have a poetry of experience. Where relationships have consequence. Where lessons are taught. Where joy and sadness fight and make up and fight again. Where memories are bigger than they were when we lived them. Where some details linger and others have left us long ago, so we fill in the blanks. Where food tastes and air smells and feelings feel. Where it is all a bit artistic — painted in hues where the light falls just right. Where the truth is sometimes too painful to remember and memorable to forget. That is the small town we all know. Where towns can be city blocks our bell-centered squares. Where store fronts are store fronts and corners are corners. Where learn about common sense and kindness and love.