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0 Comments | Nov 07, 2016



The stories that we tell

one another are stones

buried deep in the ground.

We need only unearth them,

wrench them from

the moist clutching soil

with pry bar and shovel,

muddy our hands

with the travail

of protagonist and heroine.


Sometimes the stone, once lifted,

reveals hidden creatures

that scurry from the light,

threads of a story yet untold.

Other times the stone is

just the stone, clean and complete.

And we raise it proudly above our head

like Moses on Sinai,

shouting to all who will listen.


And then there are stones

we do not share with others.

We just place them

quietly into a wall

with all the others,

then look out proudly

across the meadow of our life

as our stories roll away

into infinity.

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