Rhodonite

In the dark depths of stone,

where mountains keep their
unfinished thoughts,

a vein of rose appears—

not the pink of petals,

not the blush of dawn,

but a deeper colour,

as though the earth remembered
 
every wound and chose

to bloom around it.

Black rivers thread through it,

silent as old lightning
 
frozen mid-journey.

They do not spoil the brightness;

they give it a map.

I hold the stone in my palm

and it holds its weather:

pressure,

fire,

the patience of buried years.

What survives is not perfection.

The fractures remain,

written in charcoal script

across a field of quiet crimson.

Yet the stone shines.

Not despite its darkness,

but with it—

the way a lantern requires night,

the way roots require soil,

the way a heart learns
 
the shape of its own strength.

Rhodonite,

small piece of the deep earth,

you carry a lesson older 
than language:

that beauty is sometimes
 
what happens

when endurance takes colour.

A stone full of heart,
rose fire threaded with shadow,
teaching compassion,
strength, and the quiet art 
of becoming whole.
Through every challenge 
it offers the same reminder:
it is the courage 
to keep shining.

Anon