Silver oak, have another toke.
Four generations and all that is left to see.
Is silver oak and me.
I have no connection to this place.
Or to the trees that took over this space.
No trees, no evidence of a hundred years of toil.
Nothing to show that one family worked this soil.
A hundred acres back to nature.
A few rocks rolled in place.
The rest is gone without a trace.
So why do I take exception with the silver oak.
Invaders in a silver cloak.
I see them dotted throughout the isle.
Standing at attention single file.
Surrounded by their many clones.
Similar to science fiction drones.
If they were not here I would not lament the missing.
Nor would I have stopped in passing.
Or would I have taken the time to listen.
To the chickadees reminiscing.
Living grave markers to a way of life.
Broken tea cups owned by a farmer's wife.
I came to look at what remains.
Or what the silver oak explains.
A rock foundation will be hidden neatly.
Under moss and ferns growing discreetly.
I have another picture in my head.
Where another path might have led.
A gable roofed house, a barn with chickens.
A Thanksgiving dinner with all the fixings.