The Moonstone Poem by D. S. Jones

I held a moonstone in my hand
the color of the snow
and black
like sparkling coal.
Within its polished depths
an aura-
iridescent purple and blue
brought life to this stone
making me think of opals
as I turned the smooth surface
in my hand.
It whispered of mountains
in Sir Lanka or Himalayan heights
where reaching into the heavens
it reflected the moon's light
upon unseeing eyes
at night.
And, not polished then,
the cold milky-white
could be confused with snow
as it pointed to the moon.
The crystalline within
might not be seen as opal-like
shimmering with beauty
until the Quarried Hand
removed the centuries
of battering life
bringing forth the beauty
seen only by God's eyes.
I held the moonstone
a moment more
and smiled
marveling at what God sees.