Saturday’s Poem

Ars

A paper folds.
A winter tree stands.
A scattering of ashes
once gathered to me
whispers our lives
are all legends
and never told free
of illusion
and unintended
self mockery.

Pile rough stones
on a windshorn height:
They’ll tell their own story
long after we’re gone,
one wiser, one better
than we imagine
they mean.

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