By Hannah Schafer
Beneath the old apple tree, down by the lane,
My grandfather sat as he called out my name.
He’d carve little ships out of cedar and pine,
And send them adrift on the creek’s silver line.
“The wind knows its path, just as we know our own,
Though sometimes we wander where seeds have been sown.”
His voice lingers still in the shade of that tree,
A whisper of roots that still grow within me.