We stand where the surveyor
drove iron into the hill
and named it empty.
Below, the roots kept record:
each taking written in grain,
each burial folded into clay.
My grandmother said
the land remembers footsteps
longer than it remembers flags.
Even now, the ground lifts slightly
when we return:
a breath held too long.
Under asphalt, bones practice patience.
Under zoning lines, water waits.
We kneel, not to yield
but to listen.
Every name spoken aloud
loosens a seam.
The soil repeats it back,
learning us
again.
