The Book of Weston

Once again, I make my way to shore,

take a deep breath, and dive

into water freezing, murky.

Through doubt, I find the bottom.

The sifting sands. I spy a sphere,

grab it, fill my fists, lungs gripping,

flee to the surface, gasping, shedding water.

I crawl to shore, crouch in the sand,

inspecting my finds, turning them over.

Mostly junk, as usual, dozens of bland

rocks I discard into the nearby tide pool.

But then: a jolt, a pause, a jewel!

I raise it to the sun, it sparkles,

speckling my stunned face, a prism,

a suggestion of depth. I hold it close,

carry it into my workshop where

the deepening begins: the cleaning, polishing.

Sometimes, the stone is not open to refinement.

I toss it back to shore for later.

But today I have one that complies.

It softens, shedding edges, revealing

its naked perfection. It knows it must be seen.

I pour myself into it and it shines back.

I display it on a velvet cushion

with the others: my precious collection

that warms me with its steady glow.

Maybe one day I'll dust it off,

remove an overlooked blemish.

But for now, it is finished.