Real Emeralds are worth more than synthetics
But the only way to tell one from the other
Is to heat them to a stated temperature,
Then tap. When it’s done properly
The real one shatters.
I have no emeralds.
I was told this about them by a woman
Who said someone had told her: True or False,
I have held my own palmful of bright breakage
From a truth too late. I know the principle.
Friday’s poem is today instead because for those who care, on Friday, I was non-functioning-vomiting-shivering-boiling hot- human being. I’m better, thanks for asking. In any case, my own response to this poem is ambivalent. I think it’s a beautifully written metaphor. Written in simplistic, innocent voice that tells so much in the end…I’m just not sure I agree with the point he’s making. What do you think?