“The Value of Stones” [by Michael Quattrone]

The Value of Stones

It’s never what they weigh; it’s not the depth

of silence they have known; it’s not the round-

or hardness of their edges, certain color

or uncertain age that proffer worth. Metals,

crystals, precious on their own, may dwell

within the body of a rock, but never mind

those false alarms of wealth. The treasure

of each stone lives in its skill: the subtle art

of timing, moving even still, invisible

for eons—until now, when heavy, sad,

I sought a place to put my head, first walk

without the old dog; not wanting to

remember, nor forget the creamy softness

of her faithful fur, one velvet ear; her

eager and then fallen eyes, her earthy

nose, dank breath; her batting tail and puppy

temperament, until her body failed. I

sank down and something bore me up: a piece

of bed unnoticed on the overlook

we’d risked each day on our six aging legs—

but here it was: a stone that never left

a man unturned. I sat and stayed, I curled

up and yelped. It polished me, the surface

of the hurt I felt. Such is the kindness

of a rock: however ancient, deep or sharp,

it waits, the patient body of the earth

immune to what afflicts our softer flesh,

as we dig up what modest giftedness

we can in human time. The measure of

a stone, and what it marks, is never mine.

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