Deep in the hush of the Shawnee trees,
Where time moves soft on a mossy breeze,
A fieldstone rests with chisel worn,
Wm A. Patton, a name forlorn.
No dates of life, no words to tell
If this was youth or age that fell.
Just 1888, hand-etched and plain,
A year, a name, and none explain.
Others lie near in similar stone,
Some marked, some silent, some unknown.
Was this a child? A man? A fate?
A name that weather can’t negate.
So here we pause, and gently tread,
Among the named and nameless dead.
And wonder, quiet, who he’d be—
This Patton, veiled in mystery.
-E. Allen
