The Pines are waiting

There is a place beside a road that undulates through the heights of the lake countryside, where venerable pines add green spice to the sweetness of lilacs, every Springtime. Here a house once stood, sheltering generations of the same family. Here also, a repair shop once burned to the ground, before the farm was ultimately let to stand empty, for a time, though not untended.
For love of family, for love of memory, the meadows are still kept. The land is walked and the grass is mowed. There are stories attached to one particular, venerable oak tree, and perhaps stories in store for another.

Land records and relates more impressions than we know, or, perhaps...people to listen to its thoughts are far rarer than they once were. This farm, marked and guarded by its tree-lined acreage, does not feel wild, or "gone back" as many do, with hip-high growth and crumbling remains of men's achievements for mute testimony of struggles given over. No. It has been resting, waiting, even dreaming, for the next house under the pines, the home that will open its windows to lilacs on the breeze, where perhaps a chimney will breathe white defiance of Winter's blast. This piece of the land, like every where else, was made for Love of those who would settle to live on it and from and with it, as they did, and it waits now, dreaming, for love to come home.