The Pen That Is You

There, in the meadow
we stole the world, our whole
childhood in a stick
off the side of the road.

We bat down history re-
scaping ground South of town,
whittling away the sharpest years
by slowly growing out of them.

The pen that is you, – tucked
in a craftsman hinged box
still croons to its tall grass sister
softly singing,  all flesh is fleeting,

::

a nod to my brother Shawn,
who whittled me a Sunflower
wood pen, to remind me
of home; of then. QKJ prompt

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