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
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017
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