Nights on Spice Island #1.10
Updated: Sep 11
Every stone upon my path
keeps secrets, knows the circumstance,
of each day and night and how each vanished.
Locked in memory of shale,
or in its crystal chamber mind -
the weather when they broke the crown;
the color of the sky for Lincoln's speech;
the clash of steel in brothers' hands;
how cold the wind the starry night
when two explorers crossed the eastern dark of woods
to fields of amber waves of grain.
Stones, mute, sleeping, whisper nothing.
Present winds are all they heed.
And my small whispering they hear.
Bright flags of colors racing high
are all that cross a crystal mind.
Upon my path, this crowd bears witness -
Every stone a memory
and every stone a lie.