Geodes

They are useless, there is nothing

to be done with them, no reason, only

the finding: letting myself down holding

to ironwood and the dry bristle of roots

into the creek bed, into clear water shelved

below the outcroppings, where crawdads spurt

through silt; clawing them out of clay, scrubbing

away the sand, setting them in a shaft of light

to dry. Sweat clings in the cliff's downdraft.

I take each one up like a safecracker listening

for the lapse within, the moment crystal turns

on crystal. It is all waiting there in darkness.

I want to know only that things gather themselves

with great patience, that they do this forever.