There lies a stone in a field,
A stately old oak its shield.
I use to go there unknown
To sit and ponder and hone.
As I grew, so did the stone,
Though not in stature or build,
For these a stone cannot yield.
No---twas wise in years it grew,
In blotchy, lichenose hue.
Categories:
lichenose, introspection, nature, nostalgia,
Form: Rhyme