Blake Campbell

Crystal-hunting

for Rachael Dait

The March thaw having loosed

A load of shattered slate

Intermixed with quartz

(Erosion’s old retorts

As freezing nights abate

And owls return to roost),

We scratched like turkeys, scored

The dirt with ungloved claws.

Protruding from ground we cleared,

The wayward stones appeared

To us, for all their flaws,

Like antique jewels restored,

Although there was no sun

To showcase the refraction

Of facets still defined

Despite earth’s constant grind,

Despite those of their faction

Still buried, seen by none.

I packed my sweatshirt pockets

And you your bag—a ruck

Already stuffed with bones

And feathers, duller stones—

Both savoring the suck

Of rocks pulled from their sockets.

You noticed what I noticed

And more. You never left

For dead the discards. Still,

As the bag continued to fill,

I foresaw in its heft

Your mother’s gentle protest

As we spread out our haul

Across her kitchen table:

Dirt-caked, coyote-gnawed

Offerings to a god

Unknowable, unstable,

And absent since last fall.

Weighed down, we had to choose

The best, our close inspection

Leading us down the path

Of winter’s aftermath,

Searching for near perfection

Among the dross and druse.

Blake Campbell's poems and criticism have appeared in The Dark Horse, The Ocean State Review, Able Muse, On the Seawall, and 32 Poems. His chapbook Across the Creek is available from Pen & Anvil Press.