It’s a piece of dirt in your hand
Not a gem, not a clean crystal
Holding the rainbow inside.
It’s just a clump of dirt,
Scattered in the palm of your hand
Moving between your fingers
As it were alive, breathing,
Warming your hands and you heart
When you’re cold at night
When your thoughts are scattered
On the corners of your brain
And nothing seems to link them together
Except, the touch of that cold dirt!
The idea of holding something in your hand
The immortal pieces of dirt
Waiting to be transformed
And depending on your fingers, to change,
To morph into the most beautiful ball of dirt-
Your, perfect ball of dirt
Your idea of wish,
Your idea of clinging on to something.