dry
tasteless paper bureaucratic
Stumbling over rocks
man made rocks
designed to last only a lifetime
mine or yours?
Who makes the rocks?
Who makes the places for the rocks?
Who decides the fake delights in safe passage?
Who decides the fake sorrows in stumbling?
A gentle breeze touched my face and
I stopped to wonder
to turn and face into my benefactor
Upon whose softness was borne the scent of strange real places
real delights
real sorrows
real rocks
And I went there and found a simple garden.
A man crying
sitting at the crest of a small hill
old, gray of hair and face
gray of movement, too
"Do not fear to intrude," he said.
"But if you stay, I will tell you my tale"
"We loved and fought.
We went to places we thought might please us
later, need us
We moved rocks, built a home to please us
later, need us
We delighted in a family to please us
later, need us
We sorrowed when others failed to please us
later, need us
She loved this little hill above our house
She is buried here at the crest with no marker
the hill is hers
the hill is her marker
I come here to sense the reality of all things."