In search of story

March 7.19



When words die

and lie

lightly in brown piles,

and slatted benches

hold no one

in their arms,

will the stones remember


of blood and bone,

do they


hold the meaning?

Or does meaning lie too

in the dry brown

awaiting its ride on the scattering wind

leaving the stones to their empty cold?



Thanks more to photographer S.W. Berg.


6 thoughts on “March 7.19

  1. The stones remember, and they speak. I have heard them when I visit ruins from ages past.

  2. I never met a stone or rock I didn’t like, and I love a bench, empty or full. I always wonder what kind of story a bench could tell. It is kind of like an old barn. There’s always a story there somewhere. 🙂

    • Given that I’m out in search of story, I really love your observation about benches and old barns. I had to smile when I read that you’d never met a rock or stone you didn’t like — I can believe that!

  3. I’m sure they remember.

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