Stone: A Poem by David Rogers

No leaf left on any tree you can see from here.
It is good to have one’s darkest
suspicions confirmed.
You may keep secrets but you are not allowed
to choose which ones.
Some will be written on your tombstone
whispered over and over
by fallen leaves.
The thing you wanted everyone to know
will be forgotten.
Carve your own stone to say whatever you like
but beware survivors who may revise.
I’d rather trust the leaves:
the other day I met Ambrose Bierce walking
through the woods. I don’t mean his ghost.
The last thing he said to me was
“. . . before it’s too late.”
I’ve been trying
hard to remember the first part of the sentence.
That night I dreamed everyone I knew
wore masks that looked just like themselves.

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