Delicately carved into a cranial cup
Crazed with convergent
Wriggling suture lines:
A bowl that is a stone;
A stone that is a bowl, it
Needs to be held in the hands
in order to shine.
Blue as ink, it
Need not be washed clean
Never polished, nor repaired, but
It must be brought forth, displayed:
To shine it must be seen.
To hold its cool, solid power
Is to invite, yet again
The danger that is the Muse
To pour your offering
Over Her feet, to
Come out from hiding.
This deep, blue stone bowl
Was made to hold but one substance
The poet’s heart blood.
From a dream & posted here for National Poetry Day.