Sandy soil

Housing funny plants

Ticklish to the touch.

And nothing much around.

Swings that creak

And fly me through the fire

Smoke. A taste of s’mores

And once an oyster.

Soft, soft bread, and couches

And a rocking chair

In a room we all would pack in.

An attempt to let it all live on.

Acceptance that its gone.

The Stand

A place of vast- and close-ness

A chance for grace from egress.