MaryJane, how am I to know you?
Your stone worn by the ages.
Is a detail somewhere inscribed
That adds to your faded pages?
Does your stone suggest a winsome tale
Now obscured by the years?
A pity, I might guess,
That there’s more here than appears.
Indeed a chance that we all take
When our tale is finally written.
After years of storms and winters
That our stones, like us, are smitten.
Though, MaryJane, your name lives on.
Here, where you once played,
Others are still delighted
As though with us, you had stayed.