carnelian

I found you raging on a small patch of earth,
out of the way,
sunset hues and smooth heat,
something bright that somebody probably lost (or threw away,
so many people have tossed you aside already,
I wouldn't be surprised).
You were shiny, most definitely,
your slick surface worn, or polished if you prefer,
by a million forms of pressure,
touching and tossing -
a hundred unwanted hands pulling away your protective layers,
their questions poking and prodding where they were never welcome,
exposing you.
They had excuses, everyone does.
With your new, bright surface,
reflecting the light of the sun back a thousand times stronger,
and many times brighter,
they insisted that they had made you more beautiful.
But maybe the way you were before was what
you wanted to be.
I have found that there is a certain charm to rough and untamed surfaces,
pock marks and crevices hiding secrets worth waiting for,
easily lost when you strip them back -
potentially pure truth turns to
astringent shame in a moment.
Something you trust someone to hold for you is
more valuable than something someone steals.
I found you, and put you in my pocket.
Pockets, those universal closed spaces that we carry with us:
anything could go inside them.
A small object that we want to keep with us. A gift for someone else, or
a tool that we might need.
But, slippery and distrustful from years of mishandling,
you easily fell from my pocket when I wasn't looking.
Maybe I leaned the wrong way.
Maybe in my childishness, hanging upside down from the branch of a tree,
I let you slip to the ground again where,
clouded by dust,
you lay seething in your own hatred and sadness
with no hands to hold you and anchor your shimmering lustre.
It was so easy to lose you.
And so for hours I have laboured over a tiny pouch,
something just your size with your name in ruby red,
soft fabric, but firm to grasp your flickering soul.
I have pricked my fingers numerous times.
Putting things together is not my strong forte.
I have started over several times as well.
I find myself having to go back to the start quite often.
With the pouch around my neck, and the light waning,
I will go back out and race against the dark.
I will look for you if you are willing to be found.
This time I will keep you close to my heart, for I have learned
that some are too precious to be entrusted to the
everyday endeavors of mere pockets;
and I have learned that some things are meant to be held firmly,
and close to warmth,
because though you have the appearance of fire,
you have grown so cold.