We Do Not Own the Land
Renegade trees are popping up all over my yard.
Reminding me that I am the interloper; it is their turf.
This is a forest, wild and well-guarded by giant oaks and cottonwoods.
Soldiers who will be here hundreds of years after we are gone.
I sit in the middle of the forest, in the meadow where my gardens are.
Marveling at my red knock out roses, which are a vivid hot pink.
A tiny stick of an elm tree has popped through in this garden.
I am nurturing it, like a mother nurtures her baby,
This is Kansas where tens of thousands of elms were murdered
By an elm disease.
There has not been an elm tree here for twelve years.
Miraculously, this might be the only elm in Kansas for all I know.
This baby elm is proof that we do not own the land.
She will be here, giving shade hundreds of years after I am gone.
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