Stones of all shapes fit together in a semblance of order.
Many have fallen to one side or the other, but they
still lay in a line. A line that once marked…
what? A farmer’s land, an orchard, a home?
Covered in vines and moss the old stone wall reaches back
into the dense forest just like it always has when I come
to sit here. My eyes travel along watching it curve and bend
as it travels beside the stream bed then up the small hill
to the old orchard. The apple trees stand evenly spaced,
their branches hang heavy in the autumn as if waiting
for a harvester to return. Now the birds fill this role.
How strange it is that I always return to this place,
this one little spot on the wall. How many times
have I sat here to read or write? To laugh or cry?
Here where the only sounds are the wind, the birds
and the stream. Here I have flown with dragons
and sailed the seas in clipper ships. Here I heard
of an aunt’s death, and a cousin’s birth.
Have you ever tried to count the stones
in a stone wall? They are uncountable. Piled high,
one on top of another they hide each other,
touch each other, affect each other. Each stone
in my wall is one of my memories,
memories fitted together in a semblance
of order that makes up… time… and me.