Out of place in a northeastern field,
a rock sitting quietly by my side,
we admire the rolling hills, green grass
and a horizon of fall-touched trees,
like a characters in a hotel painting.

My soul should sway in this breeze
a gentle hand to rock my cradle,
my mind should be inspired
souring with the south-bound birds,
I should find peace in such a place.

My life steals this chance of life
as I worry on things I can't change,
the money for bills now overdue,
crimes committed by unknown men,
wars in places that are just too far away.  

I envy the solace of the rock,
with this view--the whole of its world
no summer to hot, no winter to cold
no feeling, no worries, and nothing to envy.

It has witnessed millions of sunrises,
stared off into the most starry of nights,
watched seasons change and change again
the trees sprouting, growing, and dying
evolution of the living, extinction the dead.

What a story it could tell!
What a song could it sing!
This silent friend -- I found in this field.

I wonder would it include me in its story
or sing about me in its song?
The envious, worrisome traveler
who spent an autumn moment by it's side.

Yet, it can't tell its tale and it can't sing
for in the end it is simply just a rock
the only story it can have is the story I tell
a story told by a man inspired by a rock.

Joey Jones