An exquisite poem about the beauty of the inanimate by the great Barbara A. Holland.
WHEN STONES HAVE SHED THEIR SKINS
by Barbara A. Holland
Who can say
there are no souls in stones,
and who can look at Kunzite
and who can look at Kunzite
and say that
they have bodies,
gauze ripped
from the garments of the sun,
a plumage shed by luminous
a plumage shed by luminous
transparent
birds, spent splinters of the morning,
mineral and
miracle, held at its climax
in a sheath of stone,
in a sheath of stone,
gossamer against
its ending?
Youth, northern,
frangible inside
drops of blue
opal as if dawn had bled
its earliest moments, as if clots of sky
concealed in stone, had been preserved
before the daylight killed it;
its earliest moments, as if clots of sky
concealed in stone, had been preserved
before the daylight killed it;
all the weathers
of the world in quartz;
mist depths of
white sand shallows in aquamarine
on frost of breath inside a shell of stone
on frost of breath inside a shell of stone
take life from
light and strain at carapace
until the day
its long endurance breaks
before eternal
pressure from within,
Who would be
surprised? Not even God
would have
expected it!
What must the
winds bear up
when stones have hatched:
what wings shall fan
when stones have hatched:
what wings shall fan
the cold fires
of the stars
or beat to
warmth the white
heart of the moon
when
stones have shed their skins?heart of the moon
No comments:
Post a Comment