Stoic

The wind whistles over the stones, each a different tune —
a stoic symphony of wailing for wanderers.
The drip, drip, drop of rain puddles and ripples,
intermingling with my bloody feet;
the sharp rocks caked in mud still cutting me,
like upturned bottle caps layering the path.
Sit down, whispers the breeze,
Lie down and stay awhile.
Sighing, I sink to the soft grass.
Folding inward, the earth wraps around,
A blanket against weather and wounds.

Then, I am gone —
And the stone tells my story.