Yonder the sterile splinter’s wedge of winter on a fence’s edge,
A foreign field of dandies fly, forging toward the speckled sky.
As hummingbirds in all their haste cease to soon the season’s chase,
And Sycamore shade, quick to press, against the seedling seeking rest.
Yonder the battered brim of cobbled path, tread by soles of many past,
There the mud awaits the flesh, longing to make the raw the fresh.
Tainted by the mounting grass, reaching heights that none surpass,
Twisting vines forming sculptures of knot, secrete the wine of grapes unwrought.
Yonder the sag of incurvate roof, giving way to gravity’s proof,
Stands mountains erect in all their might, bowing only to morning’s light.
Sunshine reflects off of sandy shore due to the cycle of tide before,
Seashells remain as the proof of past, that what once was will forever last.
Yonder the day my body dies and my brittle bones bid you goodbye,
In the fields, the mud, the mountains high, my eternal soul greets you high.
RIP Kelsey Justin Stevens
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