A jeweler digs
Through his glittering wares
And desires to keep
The fairest of all. His fingers
Feel all their crystal faces,
Attuned to every bump or blemish
Like a spider’s leg
In perfect sync
With every tremble
Along its gossamer web. Yet,
H finds nothing
But glassy bodies
Smooth as skin
Shaved bare.
If not with touch,
Sight will guide the jeweler
To choose. He lacquers
The gems
With a delicate stare. They smile
Back with a light
Of their own: one red
And raging, another
A soft blue tongue,
And still more beyond
The scope of words.
All boast
A singular beauty,
Neither greater
Nor lesser
Than the next. He cannot decide
Which stone is best
When all beg
To stay at his side. His fingers
Frail, his eyes
Downcast, the jeweler
Sells his precious stock. One
By one they disappear
And their light shrinks
Into the distance. For him,
Life is unadorned.
He Who Wanders 