A Poem

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A Resting Place

I did not know at first
How worn our names would become
Fitted to this place
Like a well-used, well-made leather boot
Through the seasons, weathered
To gain the authenticity
Of something that belongs
Because it has been here
And remains

I think of Halvor Coulter
And Eliza Charlotte Wheeler
Who farmed this land long before us
I have found evidence of them
While tilling the soil
A rusty horse shoe
A large post nail
A spring from a hay rake

Their names become mixed with the earth
As our own find their resting place.

-Farmer Jeremy