Carnelian
a poem about memory...perhaps
Carnelian
I hold the stone in my hand,
solid and smooth and old as time,
pale red, the color of faded blood
and rust, the swirl of cream in coffee,
formed of fire and water
and a precipitation of chalcedony–
or so the books say–
tinged with a kiss of iron.
When I squeeze it hard enough
I can see my own bones
and sinew beneath my skin.
I hold it to my eye,
look through it, and see
the birth of all things,
the heat of life and thirst.
My soul yearns to hold
the stone long enough
that some part of me,
sweat and hope and desire,
might soak into it and carry
a faint memory of me forward,
to know that I was here,
that I walked on the earth.
--Stuart Higginbotham