Digging For A Heart

The hidden archaeologist in me wanted to dig,

So I chose a small plot of land, rich and soft

And sure to yield something amazing -

It was to be my unique discovery.

Growing in the topsoil was a wild rose bush

Of exquisite colour and form,

But so as not to disturb its perfection,

I dug carefully all around it -

And in my naiveté, I wanted to believe

That what I might find could alter my life

And the life, too, of that rose bush,

So inch by inch I dug deeper and deeper.

Then one day my small spade hit rock,

And to my dismay, my disappointment,

I found no treasure there,

No natural wonder, no ancient relic,

no revelation -

Only hard, hard rock.

Suddenly the roses lost their bloom,

Their petals withered, bruised brown

And curled in ugly shapes as they fell to

ground -

Along with my bitter tears.

Is it the same with people?

Can you dig and dig, and dig,

And in the end you see surface beauty

So loved, so admired, lose all intrigue, all charm,

When you eventually find that underneath -

Lies just a heart of stone?

© June Maureen Hitchcock June 2007