Dust from the graves of time-dead stars
congeals within the magma of a planetary core,
Is delivered of a molten womb
against the will of jealous gravity,
devolved from star-dust to stone.
The child of stone is born blind, dumb,
and helpless as star-dust, yet asks why
we sing and weep, find and lose one another
on a rock whirling between the poles of infinity.
The sculptor seeks whatever hides within the stone,
aware that only what’s unseen is real.
Stone’s child knows that nothing real
can be confined within our universe and time.