When words die
and lie
lightly in brown piles,
and slatted benches
hold no one
in their arms,
will the stones remember
warmth
of blood and bone,
do they
hearth-like
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.
