The Burn of Black Stone

Start with the burn of black stone
too hot to touch, steaming at a breath of rain.
In each crack, crystals of sulfur have grown
like crusts at your eyelids in times of pain.
Time passes. Stone cools from the burn.
Lichens eat stone to make way for ferns.

Too hot to touch, steaming at a breath of rain
brittle shapes break and fracture as they cool,
iridescent surfaces over hidden strain.
Visible scars are not always the most cruel
and hardening lava can lock damage in deep.
Molten memory erupts from unquiet sleep.

In each crack, crystals of sulfur have grown.
Mineral accretions that mimic floral life
get little recognition for the beauty that’s their own,
resilient landscapes for surviving strife.
We value the unharmed, the pristine, the new,
reject the river for the new-fallen dew.

Crusts at your eyelids in times of pain
betray the tears that have been shed unseen
betray the wounds that left no bloodstains.
Landscapes that display no trace of living green
echo the sound of the soundless cries
mirror the arid encrusted eyes.

Time passes. Stone cools from the burn.
We grow reconciled to the new form of land,
choose to claim honor for the scars we’ve earned.
What craftsman would boast of an uncalloused hand?
Why is a soul unworn and innocent
held of more worth than the broken and mended?

Lichens eat stone to make way for ferns.
Ferns and moss gather airborne dirt.
Trees take root among lessons we’ve learned
and spread welcome shade over new earth.
Lush green flesh spreads over bones
and it all starts with the burn of black stone.

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