|Image Provided by Magpie Tales|
How she hated skirts
They had no pockets
Not like the overalls
She would have lived in overalls
If Mother would have let her.
After a day of treks
In the Missouri woods
With Charlie and her brother
They would all return home
Weighted down with treasures
In their pockets
Each Taken out and talked about
Displayed on her windowsill.
How she loved stones even then
Noticed for their odd shape
Their color or sheen
Picked up to look at closer
Kept because they fit
So nicely in her palm
Slipped so easily in her pockets
Carried as a talisman or put in potted gardens.
She thought at first it was just a piece of soap stone
But upon examination saw it was carved
A figure with birds and a gentle expression
Now worn smooth carried about
In one pocket after another
Over the years.
Now it was cargo pants
And she didn't have to beg permission to wear them
She picked up St. Francis from her dresser
Slipped him again into a pocket
Set off into the New Mexico forest with her camera
So many walks with her Saint
So many pocket stones.