Hands are rough rocks from working in the yard.
The yard bending to his will
Just like his sheds and gardens,
Exotic places are the places we build or even work together.
How can I build these places without you now?
The yard calms down as the sun starts falling,
his gaze turns to me as his body goes clear.
"Let's find the wood first."
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 1:40 PM UTC
Hands are rough rocks from working in the yard.
The yard bending to his will
Just like his sheds and gardens,
Exotic places are the places we build or even work together.
How can I build these places without you now?
The yard calms down as the sun starts falling,
his gaze turns to me as his body goes clear.
"Let's find the wood first."
This is a poem about my Skipper, (my mothers father), not too long after he passed away, hope you enjoy!
