I walked the fields with my father every year

learned the rise and fall of hills and fences

where the streams and rain would run

I knew the houses and the barns

the stories of who built them and burned them

why the one small cabin stood alone

I sat in warm kitchens with elderly neighbors

listened to their yarning of who what and where

marked their passing when they died and mourned

yet I knew these stories would die with me

though grafted into my very core

I’ve walked too lightly to leave much behind

only a few words collecting dust on the table