drystone — a tiny poem

the lived life

a stack of stones

a convent garden of the heart

drystone

karma crafted

by some giant’s hands

we can never be sure the path

it always opens

some new crevasse

the soul speaks

of placements

of tiny memories tucked

large boulders that rolled

the light through smallest spaces

windworn

a start anyway — late! xxoo!

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