Lemongrass Stevens Poet Verse

Racine, Wisconsin

Dear Florence,

The minutes turn to hours when I grace
The mellow’d country of my youth,
Where ruptured bicycles rest like wreaths
Under the golden brilliance of heaven.

Here, time surrenders itself upon
Her hollow’d drives,
And betwixt her swaying pines
The Dantean fables breathe unto me
A renew’d serenity.

O Florence,
Her muddied brooks enchant me of
A brandywine incense,
And ever still are her flowing valleys,
Where once I spent my summer’s end.

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