dig

somewhere in my yard  
is a meteorite  
not too big, doesn't rely on magnitude  
to impact  
but is still substantial  
 
beautiful
I'm sure  
 
cast with the iron  
and heavy metal expected  
yet, I envision  
peridot inside  
crystallized moss radioactive  
can sense  
pressure and heat formed facets  
of every colored beryl  
refracting the intent  
of the observer  
 
enough ju-ju  
to have new-agers  
invent a new incense  
but tied to ancestry enough  
to smell myrrh  
Mecca is a shrine to supra-terrestial  
stones such as this  
 
I haven't yet found it  
and science can't help  
but it is more than metaphor  
 
it affects my dreams  
my awake  
some stowed-away sentience  
must have made the trip  
because more than magnets  
call to my bloods ores  
 
you can tell by the indent,
by the grass pressed into pattern  
that my yard is laughing  
at the fence around its head  
wearing it like a cardboard crown  
   
I have dug many holes  
and heard the ding of unknown rock  
against a shovel that exists  
merely for the pleasure of ditch,  
but can still not confirm  
the seat of my company  
although, the hands on clocks go awry
as you approach my house