Once I walked beside a mountain stream and stopped
to gather up a rock that caught my eye as it
flashed in the cold edge of melting snow.
Its blackness seemed to hold the void of
space and time.
As it dried in the sun’s heat, it showed itself
also to come from fire. In some other age, in some other
part of the mountain, the earth’s molten heart had erupted,
and once free become impervious stone,
immune to wind and weather and further violence.
I put it in my pocket and brought it home to you.
Late at night you might hold it in your hand, and
the lava will flow like your own hot tears….
Then I will mold it, too, into something new
in your image.
Daniel J. Cox