The Flint

 

Hard, black and dull

It lies abandoned

On the dark, damp earth

Unseen by the eyes of those

Who look for brighter, prettier things

 

Her eyes are downcast

They spy the forgotten flint

And are inexplicably drawn

To the plain beauty of it

It does not scream for attention

No one notices as she stoops to pick it up

 

Its weight is heavy in her hand

And it begins to warm

As she clutches it tightly

And its smooth warmth comforts her