The pearl is held tight in the oyster’s shell.
The world holds her breath,
feels the pangs of birth.
The pearl is a tear drop formed.
Small. Falling into cupped hands
Nothing is spared.
We who cry a river, falling over the edge,
have a cushion in the water.
We are held,
that a little pressure sometimes
is the impetus for a stream,
a dam burst.
And right now, sitting in our rooms,
we are the precious metal, honed,
rubbed to a shine.
And though we may feel like a tear,
a dew drop teetering on a blade of grass,
we are fully seen.
Held in a shaft of sunlight.
Burning off, returning to the storehouse,
water vapour in a cyclical dance.
I know that I can feel as though made of glass,
a thin construct. Transparent as to come to nothing.
But find I am not expired,
can breathe again,
a pearl in a shell, a tear drop cupped as a jewel.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry