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There are places where

time lies down and waits

while the years build up,

collecting like dust on a shelf

or sediment in a creek bed.

Where people’s lives

cut pathways of memory

into the bones of the earth



Lay your hand here

on the cut stone

and listen.

Really listen

Not with your ears,

but with all of you.


These are the places where

long-fallen footsteps

are ground into the rocks.

Where the pools of old laughter

and forgotten sin

leave ripples in the earth,

and the air holds all the breath

once spilled in loving hatred

and held tight in fear.


Can you hear it?

A tangled chord

washing through you

like a deep moan,

tolling the falling years?

A low, full sound that

shakes the sympathetic rhythms

of your heart?

Can you feel it?


These are the places where

all the cares that came and went,

and came again

are woven into the fabric of being.

Where the bounds between

here and there,

now and then,

buckle under the weight of it all.



This is such a place.

Put your hand

on the cut stone

and ask it what it knows.

The story of the world

is singing at you,

asking you

to hear it.


Open your soul to it

and listen.


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