A little girl, with pretty dark curls,
Plays alone in the field, in her own world.
She looks lost to you and me,
But she’s only lost in her fantasy.

They told her, her mother is dead,
She says, “that’s not true, she’s still in my head.”
Her mother is in everything she sees,
The flowers, the grass, even the trees.

Her mother is her whole world,
She promised always to be with her girl.
The little girl kept her in her heart,
From there, she would never depart.

She feels her mother’s kisses, when the wind blows.
Smells her mother’s scent on her clothes.
When it rains, it’s her mother’s tears,
To let her know, she felt her fears.

For in her world, Mommy is there,
To wipe her tears; hear her prayers.
So is her mother really dead?
I think only in their heads.

© 2001
By: Janice Jarnagin
Revised 2007