The Gem

 

“You’re a gem,” she said,

But she didn’t say what kind she meant.

The kind you squirrel away at the back of a treasure-box,

Beholding only occasionally, in private,

Like a secret too shameful or too proud to share?

 

Or the kind you wear boldly,

Out in the open like a silver necklace,

Like the heart-shaped silver necklace

I used to open our first conversation;

Something for every day, for all days,

To catch the sunlight, the eye, the heart?

 

Or maybe the kind you see only once,

At the back of some forgotten cave,

On the ring of some passing lady, long ago?

The kind you cherish only in memory,

Until memory itself goes faint,

And all you have is a fading glitter

Gone dull with the piling-up of years.