The stories that we tell
one another are stones
buried deep in the ground.
We need only unearth them,
wrench them from
the moist clutching soil
with pry bar and shovel,
muddy our hands
with the travail
of protagonist and heroine.
Sometimes the stone, once lifted,
reveals hidden creatures
that scurry from the light,
threads of a story yet untold.
Other times the stone is
just the stone, clean and complete.
And we raise it proudly above our head
like Moses on Sinai,
shouting to all who will listen.
And then there are stones
we do not share with others.
We just place them
quietly into a wall
with all the others,
then look out proudly
across the meadow of our life
as our stories roll away
into infinity.