Something Stood

By Dara Laine

                                 

I never asked

how the pines knew to hold the line—

windbreaks, not just trees.

 

Indian grass gathered

at the edge of gold fields—

taller than me, just watching.

 

You called it ours—

the bricks,

the hay,

the black walnut tree

that belonged to your grandparents—

as much as a tree can belong to anyone.

 

I stood beside it last fall—

the grass full-grown,

still rising.

 

At the edge of what burned

before I was born.

We never rebuilt.

But still—

something stood.

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