You began your ascent from the darkest corners
of the mine, on foot and avoiding 
the coal carts; stepping lightly
on the blue ground in-between the railroad ties.

You were young, holding close
the crystallized carbon that fell
around your feet, when you spoke: breath
exhaled, separating, with perfect cleavage, into the one
mineral that is pure, clear
as air after hard rain.

Chipped from the vein of stars and clouds
welling inside, forged by experience; a force
beyond your control, careful and concise
as how you place your arms around the load of kimberlite
that is unstable as the pressure drops; on the verge
of breaking up as you rise heavenward.

A lost art created by the bit of your voice
and strong fingers guiding the bow,
to reveal the fire as you exit
without sacrificing the origin of the jewel;
polished and safe, dispersing
morning into evening.

What all businessmen and brides are seeking;
the deep brilliance that is your song
refracting through a spectrum
of our lives and deaths, finding light in the rain.

Some Other Kind Of Index