Island of the Flowerstones

ISLAND OF

THE FLOWER STONES

While resting on some driftwood,

I watch an older gent

who slowly walks the shoreline,

a bucket in his hand.

I know what he is doing,

I met him here before;

it is not shell collecting,

removing garbage, nor

is he out to find sea glass,

algae or fishy bones.

It is far more enchanting:

he's picking flowerstones.

They're a rare commodity

and native to this isle.

The tale of their origin

is, no doubt, worth your while.

There was a huge explosion,

rumbling, and lava flow

that fostered their existence

so many years ago.

And in the cooling rock mass

small feldspar crystals grew,

creating shapes and patterns,

unusual and new.

That is what science tells me,

and who am I to doubt

the theories of experts

who have long thought about

the world and its formation,

and yet you must forgive

my slight dissatisfaction

with their plain narrative.

I guess it is my nature

to wish for something more

which has imagination

and wonder at its core.

Just looking at those beauties,

the stunning quality

recalls so many samples

of human artistry:

Simplicity and taste of

minimalist design;

a brooch of ivory and

jet, intricate and fine.

Seed-pearl embroidery on

dusky silk and velvet;

the inlays on a vintage

dark rosewood cabinet;

late-Victorian displays

of flora under glass;

an invaluable antique

Asian black lacquer vase.

Those exquisite flowerstones,

I try to understand,

how was it they developed

without a guiding hand?

Why here of all the places

on the entire globe?

Is there an explanation?

And what are rocks? I'll probe:

They're the stuff we stand on

that holds us up in space;

most of them are hidden

but some rose up to face

us as majestic mountains,

boulders and bluffs, and hills,

whose sojourn is restful and

mostly devoid of thrills.

They've no legs to carry them,

no branches to spread out,

no shoots and buds to nurture,

no wings to reach a cloud.

There's no sap, nor blood, or growth,

once born they must decay,

and though it's a slow process,

they know no other way.

The ages pass and they remain

Do they get ever bored?

For there is nothing they can

do of their own accord.

Of course, there is a fraction

of them that will enjoy

notice and admiration

whenever we employ

them for our needs and pleasures,

to build or decorate,

and many other uses:

palace and paperweight,

Some applications lauded,

jewels and marble halls.

and some that are abandoned,

millstones and cannonballs.

We rip the earth's coat open

to raid her treasure store

is she prepared to yield them

or does it leave her sore?

How different the spots are

where pebbles congregate,

caressed by moving waters,

glossy and smooth, and wait

for anyone who fancies

nature's performance art

in which streams, ocean edges,

and time are taking part.

But I should drop my odd and

lengthy ruminations

and re-adjust my focus

(thank you for your patience).

For, have I even answered

the question I did pose?

What about the flowerstones?

Let's look again at those

pieces of dark-grey basalt

and their bright ornaments:

I think they do resemble

a starry firmament,

or one of celebration

when missiles shoot sky high

erupt in sparkling blossoms.

I know the reason why!

It is the ever birthing,

bustling, and blooming life

in this special location

that makes things want to thrive,

and has touched with its power,

so irresistibly,

even the barren matter

to a striking degree:

with visions of verdure, which

appear in May and June,

profusions of soft petals

as pale-white as the moon;

sweet-scented clusters spreading

below and overhead,

and lilies, tender lilies,

small, humble and well-bred

that deck the springtime meadows

with a delightful gleam.

It has to be this island

that causes stones to dream.