Some wounds weep precious through the generations.
They glaze and harden, heal themselves into history.
What was mere sap matures like blood into air to darken
and burnish. Sometimes the grim Baltic rolls the scars
to shape those jewels women love to wear; especially
treasured where they hold a thing that was living once,
something with quick, venated wings which happened
by and thought the wound looked beautiful and sweet
and that, like other wounds, it should be acknowledged
somehow and, if only for a moment, touched.