Stone Heart

by Thomas Shea

You say that like it's a bad thing.
Like it's loveless and barren.
A lunar waste where nothing takes root.
All dust and cracks and arid coldness.

But granite breathes and limestone glides
Crystals grow and caverns branch. 
Living stone may be silent, but it thrives.

And what else would you make a heart of? 
Chewy muscle? Thin skin? Brittle bone?
Keep that weak shit and make mine syenite.
Fire? You want love that scalds and then dies in a drizzle?
Ice? If you want love that can't face room temperature.
Gold? Just flashy ore, melted and refined.

Marble may be chipped or battered or broken
And the truths on it remain legible.
It may scratch, and bruise, and crush when mishandled
But it may shelter, soothe, and shade as well. 

So give me the anchor of forests, the stuff of cities and roads, 
mother of metals, father of gems, bones of the earth.
Give me Gaia's Aegis.

Let the names of those I love be graven in glittering glory.
Let them be able to weather storm, sand, moss, or flame.
Let them last for epochs, faded, but clear as the day they were carved.
Let my love live beyond me.

Stone is many things, but means only one:
That which endures.