Why do we gravitate toward
an idealized arrangement
of natural design and beauty,
heaping layer upon layer
of flat stones separated
from orderly round ones?
Do these walls stand
compressed in architectural
tribute to planned selection
over the stew of spontaneity?
Why does man’s comfort
with the squashing power
of conformity supersede
the messy-but-meaningful
marrow of our diverse story
… our diverse history?
As we travel highways and backroads, we gather and stack our stones. We accumulate memories of lovers and friends, tranquility and turmoil, balance and incongruity, strength and vulnerability.
Our teetering stones represent the yin and yang of our natural existence. Without them, we would have nothing to account for our discoveries, our disappointments, our victories, our losses, our presence.
Gaze beyond the earth to the cerulean sky. It lightens our load. The blueness invites us to forget the gravity of our stones, to aspire to possibilities loftier, to imagine peace over the weight of our past.
Mark Johnson Stories 