• Tricia D. Wagner

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.

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