Wilt’d

i

Never wilted
Nor grated into something else

I’m a wonder to behold for
Ever more

ii

Stems catch and
Vines creep in windows
Where the wood has worn away

Not as robust as before
On this vibrant summer’s day

iii

The map was found
and creased; almost illegible

In this place, with all
Others:

I’m sound.

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