What Turned To Stone

"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?" - T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land. Who tries to grow out of this cold. Unfolding wings from nothing, nurtured with meager protection, nourished with watery milk. Whose fingers try to burrow the dry clay, the impenetrable rock. Who wants to excavate what turned to stone? In preservation conservation hides, in self protection arms as withered branches wrap around what turned to stone, knowing that deep inside one little ember glows, still glows. There one small drop of water remains, once a pool in polished rounded slab of stone, rubble, remaining consciousness This is what grows, this is one seed of hope, one tiny root, one drop of water, one cinder of warmth, one knowing once belonged to a field of glacier. While only cold remains in once warm heart that blindly searches, searches. *** March 25, 2017 Copyright © Darren White