Smoke From Home
Years ago, my family trekked north
from upstate New York, made our way
to the outer reaches of Quebec
to where the Restigouche River
divided the English from the French.
There we stayed with cousins, Scots
stranded on the French side in a town
that bore my grandmother’s maiden name–
Sillarsville. Even then, no living Sillars
remained. Later, the town was abandoned.
Today, the skies over Cincinnati
are hazed with a high pale gray
that dims but does not block the sun.
The family farm in Sillarsville is burning,
the smoke has traveled here.
