with a nod to T.S.

when is a poem not a poem?
and does the heart ever let go?

the diamond in the rough
was a handful of indigenous rock
until
its essence was gleaned and
facets were carved with care

there are rubies in the dust and pearls
in the oyster beds, we dive into dirt and
smell of water
we tremble with the light
and light a candle in the hour
that is the darkest

let us remember that only hollow men
dare to sing
when there is nothing left
and this is the way the world ends.