a poem in my pocket

Our welcome may be silent but offered sincere
as you enter this quiet space, what do you hear?
Yes, the wind whispers or whips, depends on season,
’round lone chimneys…do you wonder the reason?
Several brick chimneys and two buildings of stone;
commissary and powder house, stand here alone.
We were young soldiers when we marched to this spot
and our work to build fort in west Texas proved hot.
A frontier fort to deal with new settlers’ problem
but after three years, fort burned and abandoned.
Civil war called us, and native peoples moved on…
leaving cannon and wagon, we’re long dead and gone.

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For Dora Hak’s “written in stone” prompt at dVerse Poets Pub.