Stone walls get the last word.
This wall, my father built.He's dead.
It stands.He hefted each rock, troweled
mortar, composed High-Sierra granite,
...
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Perhaps that's why we write. A wall may last for eons, its builder forgotten and unknown. But a well-written poem has a shot at immortality, and the poet may be revered. And so we write...and hope...
A beautifully crafted bookend to Robert Frost's 'Mending Wall.' Love, love, love!
Thank you.