All day I carry the stone, the last present of my dead. A cut-crystal water glass breaks against it. My lover's laughter shatters against its gray weight into rags of rain. All day people ask me for the stone, offer to throw it down a well, bury it, smash it with sledgehammers. But I cling to it, draw my face on it, dress it in baby clothes and weep when it won't nurse. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NATURE (2) by RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE by PHILIP FRENEAU A CONTEMPLATION UPON FLOWERS by HENRY KING (1592-1669) THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD by THEODORE O'HARA GYPSY-HEART by KATHARINE LEE BATES |