Whispering Stone

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Memories ebb forward slowly,

rising from soma’s breath

with the soft awakening

if a crescent moon’s glow, it barely ripples.

 

With the yellow crinkle and dusty smell

of pages not turned in aeons

With the inaudible creak of old fingers

and calm placement of quill,

did I write in this tome so long ago,

in flickering shadow amid the hiss of wax and wick?

 

Within the smell of ancient wood

and resins and herbs

a wizened voice clears its throat

and softly murmurs and chuckles

drawing about himself a soft and heavy cloak

which smells of sweat and forests,

he steps into silver mist and cloudy fog.

 

The deep emerald grass softly giving to his feet

as he draws near the hum and scent

of dew-covered stone set in circles.

Singing a memory to reveal long after the stone has forgotten

 

It will awaken itself,

singing itself forward

in a future throat’s spontaneous shudder.

 

The remembering one utters words with tears of unknown nostalgia,

“How could I have known that I didn’t remember?”

© 2015 William Suphan

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