Field Stone

I sit in the garden
near the daisies and the lillies,
waiting with dimples.
My brown hair grows,
covering the ground.

My skin becomes etched with lines,
which flitter like clouds across my face.
I wear a simple frock of cornflower blue
as I basked in the brisk sun.

Only the wind kissing my lips.


My hair is cropped short.
The birds have taken it to nest.
My skin is stone.
I close my eyes.


On your knees, you gently kiss my head.

Jamie Lynn Morris

07-04-05