I’m tenderly moving the stones

around the velvet-lined box of cedar.

Some I pick up to examine, peering

into their deep and light shades of color

and clarity. I’m looking for  accurate

clearness but

roughed and authentic, untouched yet

polished by time and conflict. I’m stringing

the gems together to tell the story of what I

see and don’t see, of what I’ve heard and know.

I’ll pass

them on to the

travelers of tomorrow. Some will wear them frivolously

around their necks and writs yet judge them

kindly. Some will keep them in the box

and miss them altogether. And

a few will caress the stones for precious meaning.

The words—they fall short, fall short until

they pass through the blood, are washed with


and rise

to pierce the dark by blazon light.

©Bonnie Saul Wilks

Paphos, Cyprus, February 12, 2014

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