Stone in Hand

Sealed geode where valence sang,
A bell of quartz that slowly rang
Geology’s hours of buried time,
Millennia in one long chime.
This rounded rock should be a seed
Cracking open and made to lead
To silicon fertility
Sprouting from a sandy sea
In prismatic spikes of light,
Mineral glory climbing heights
Transcendent, but without a soul,
The gritty spawn of earth’s vast roll.
Dead fruit rich in countless years,
Incapable of rot or tears;
No resurrection and no heart
In this gray chunk of stony art.

Elizabeth Hurst

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Elizabeth Hurst would like to hear them.