The agate is a broken clock, telling
a story once true of time. Centuries
of pink, an age of grey, blues of
infinite. The clouded tides sweeping
some tiny cavern of rock, testament
of its own antiquity. Mineral, force,
sea: each inclusion a consequence,
banded brilliance, sediment bright.

I think of that house—its broad lawn, punk trees,
rooms sunken with not saying what must
be said. Quiet that was not quiet.
The host rock breaks up in the end. Free,
the gem can be found, polished, a treasure
transfigured from mud, time, and pressure.

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