But most of all pay homage to the land–
mother-sustainer of all that is, has been, shall be.
The lad whose pockets once held ossified crinoid stems
and arrowheads gathered among sunflowers
has grown, evolved, to asphalt paths and granite halls.
Who on Memorial Day by epitaphs reflects
upon the wheatfields, bluestem pasture, creek
that fed his roots. That soil infused into his bones.
Yet his departure for a new life leaves no scars.
It was but his way of reaching for the stars.
— Mark Scheel