Watching out the window of the north gable
wind dances across the sorghum fields
individual paths of micro bursts
dance like the buffalo that once roamed those fields. 

Buffalo wallows still remain across the expanse
deep impressions fade with each passing of the plow
wiping away what has already passed from memory.

Preparing a garden bed close to the house
where the location was taboo by tradition
was like peeling back a quilt of time.

The garden raised on that fertile land
produced more than could be put up or give away
while yielding the secrets of the past
yearning to be known.

Remaining remnants were of the finest craftsmanship
leaving a story only told in words of arrowheads
and daily life essentials reborn through the surface
with each summer rain. 

 Forgotten are the stories, names, love, joy and loss
that cannot be articulated in the sculpted stone
never intended to tell their story.

What will be known of our love and loss
when the blanket of time is peeled back
and our unintentional remains yield our story?