Why is it so rarely really
Comforting to know the truth? Why
Are we more likely to prefer
A variety of stories
Served with sidecars of arguments
About which stories are truer,
Even when the truth is simple,
Knowable, and painfully clear?
A few weeks ago a woman died
In the hamlet we inhabit,
In a pretty place with a view
Of beautiful rocks and sunsets,
And her body was found three days
Later, crumpled, frozen solid
At the bottom of her porch steps.
Stories differ on how she died.