A Lesser Gem Life

My days are not diamonds, iridescent opulence.
No one clamoring for my attention.
Not one decision I make will change the course of anything.
I can’t gouge a timeless sculpture with my fingers
or tease and pluck Rachmaninoff like Anna Fedorova.
No refinement in my house, nothing that bends light
into shining rainbow-colored fluorescent beams.

But when I wake early and the coffee taste like creamy cannoli,
and unbidden words pit my brain like thousands of rich
pigeon blood-colored pomegranate seeds,
I feel the heat and impact of tectonic shifts.
Gnashing of rock teeth, friction grinding deep
carmine and cerise, colors that smolder and smoke,
that burn slowly, my colors.
Bewildered, I look out the window to see if anyone else feels
the momentum beneath me.

After the burn and quake, I try to push away debris.
Crimson lines the creases of my imagination, hungry for more
scarlet-colored arils to crush against palate and paper.
Emily wrote in the “white heat.” I whirl in scorching reds.

Hot to the touch gems cool and recrystallize day into jagged,
vitreous dark and lush Garnet. Clean light passing through.
Sweet scent of radiant sunlight warming black-eyed susans--
an earthier red-brown beauty than elegant diamond life,
but no less abundant, no less alluring.