Geode

Geode Hour of dawn blood-red on the heels of night. Yolk of sun in cloudless air resonant with silence stills warm heart strings and brings unusual peace. Egg of amethyst, resilient purple pool, the center of the gem conceives rivers run to a crystalline hardening. Within, the slicing whir of wings, hard-edged remembrance, cubist clarity. We must get up and live in the whitening day, less sure of what was born until the gem is opened to reveal the space where the nucleus had been and is now fringed with frost. Joyce Wilson

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