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She loves lapis lazuli,
mostly for the way it sounds
to say. Though it is hard to steer
a conversation towards those words
more than once a year or so.
She mouths it to herself, just
sweet breath. A prayer soft
as the clothes, the bluest blue
folds of Mary's robes
(with just a wink of gold).
"Lapis. Lazuli."
Like water running down the mill,
over hills and through the wheel
to turn the stone and grind
so fine the season's corn.
Granite cheap and worn, water cold and pure
to make our daily bread.
While breath blows through the fields
and teases out the heads of dandelions.
What is one hour? What is one day?
What is one life when everything
she will uncover, keep, taste, touch
and put away will lose itself
to centuries that lapis, winking, never knows
nor granite, turning, cares.
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I blog irregularly at TinkerX. I'm also on Twitter. @andyhavens, go figure.
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