handfuls of air

Once again, I make my way to shore,

take a deep breath, and dive

into water freezing and murky.

Despite my doubts, I find the bottom.

The sifting sands. I spy a sphere,

grab for it. I fill my fists, lungs clenching.

I flee to the surface, gasping, shedding water.

Crawling to shore, I crouch in the sand,

inspecting my finds, turning them over

in my fingertips. 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 and it sparkles,

speckling my stunned face like a prism,

a suggestion of depth. I hold it close

and carry it into my workshop where

the deep work begins. Cleaning, polishing.

Sometimes, the stone is not open to refinement.

I toss it back to the shore for later.

But today I have one that complies.

It softens, shedding its edges,

revealing its naked perfection. It knows

it must be seen. I will make sure of it.

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 take it out, dust it off

and remove an overlooked blemish.

But for now, it is finished.