Igneous
by Dawn McDuffie
I don't know why I've kept it so long,
this miniature scone,
this refugee from a doll's tea party,
mica sparkling like sugar.
Lake water has worn it smooth, though smooth
only means "not sharp." The pink feldspar
bulges higher and the white quartz
sinks down like a tiny river.
This stone lives indoors,
but I can't throw something away
that's happy in dirt or rain.
Its green streak moves into my life line
and will not dissolve.
How I love touching this fragment
of burning now cooled, dreaming
of the end of the world.
Then it will turn liquid,
a bright molten stream.
Until then, compact and glittering,
it will outlast human metaphor,
consistent, impenetrable,
not miraculous, not bread.