Thursday, May 26, 2011

Geode on the Thames

Chiseled down the middle or sliced in two; geological diorama, half a globe; pocket-sized, palm-fitting: a very small stage.  Rough exterior but smooth where the curtains would be, only there are no curtains on this proscenium arch: the earth an open stage, her principle players: quartz and chalcedony; the latter, which comes from the Greek, means found only once, like the theory of true love I calcify into existence. 

Chiseled down the middle or sliced in half; crystals like sugar granules sparkle around the edges and shine even deeper inside this cavity where two fingers fit.  Once the secret of a lonely volcano, exposed when hammer split limestone to reveal dances of light now ignited by a ravenous sun that has waited far too long for this moment.  Stage fright, natural light; roses or swans or anything earth-like; daylight performances where we act out our human comedy.  Yes, that is me, center stage.  And yes, that is you behind the scenes.

Like Lear I divide myself, granting the largest piece of my heart to the one who loves me best, while you decorate the exterior of a balcony scene, costume the minor players, adjust the special effects so I do not see you.  Like Hamlet I cannot act on what my ghosts have told me. I shun the books where once I went for consultation and remorse, but don’t know where else to look.  I want to step down but my timing is horribly off.  

Dark lady, come out from behind your stage directions scrawled into a lost folio, lost to geological time, and wait with me behind the discovery curtain, where we’ll eavesdrop on amethyst and jasper, agate and opal, as their 240-million-year drama unfolds.