Iceland

It’s Iceland.

Jagged white jutting out from mossy green,

pinches of bark and brown,

beige and dead,

collected in crevices

burrowing deep.

It’s like Iceland, this thing.

An island of ugly black green

with a crown of shimmering crystal:

Dead rock on bedrock,

stacked, slanted, haphazard, on a tilt.

It’s Iceland that can fit in your palm -

Stinging edges pushing your soft,

skin embedding crystal into human,

creating reddened reprieves among

fortune lines.

It’s Iceland.

A cacophony of sharp and dead,

clear and dirty. Like the

Black Sand Beach,

pieces come away with you.

This piece can come away with you.

This piece is Iceland.

This piece was written during an in-class exercise that asked us to describe an object without naming it. This lovely piece of crystal rock brought back memories of being in awe of Iceland’s landscape.