The Ore

The precious metal
in my life
is your heart's ore
unmined, for
you yield it willingly -

but it is strange stuff
and I finger it
turn it in my hands
unsure of its properties -

meteoric, it comes out
of the dark from
alien space, strong
it lands and
embeds the earth

where it sat
while the world turned
till I came
and woke it from its sleep
to gleam

how will I fashion it -
to sword or cup -
my busy smithy
used as it is to receipt
and transformation?

perhaps I will leave it raw
unstruck, unpolished,
its mixed gold, purple, blue
and its sharp edges
true to itself

unneeding any form
to tell what it is
or what it does -
sheer presence suffices
and my world is different for it.
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