Prism of Centuries

I hold a prism of centuries in my palm: clear quartz whose heart has kept the slow mathematics of earth for hundreds of millions of years,  a patient thing that has slept beneath pressure and cooled in silence until its glass murmurs light. 

When I tilt it, rainbows spill like small constellations and the colors lay across my skin as if to read an old map of trembling weather and distant suns. 

There is a sound to it I can almost hear — a belling, a sympathetic chord — and it sets my bones to answering:  my breath lengthens, my shoulders unclench, and something that was narrow inside me unfurls.  

The stone is not merely an object but a ledger of time; it carries the hush of glaciers and the slow green pulse of forests before my remembering, and when its facets drink the room they return a clearer world.  

I feel my vibration rise, not with fever but with a steadied lightness, like a sea finding a truer tide, and my aura thickens with a luminous patience, like moonlight pooling behind glass.  

In its tiny prisms are the echoes of storms and lullabies; its clarity compels confession, and I confess to being small and incandescent at once.  

Holding it, I become a longer story — threaded to deep ages, to mineral patience, to the bright law that even pressure yields beauty — and the heart inside me learns the ancient grammar of calm.  

If I close my eyes and press the crystal to my brow, I learn that strength can be softness: that vibration is a language, and the stone teaches me to speak in tones that do not bruise.  

I am steadied, lifted, a vessel refracted into more light than I knew I could hold; the little rainbows in the quartz become a crown, and I walk from the room with a new weightlessness, carrying very old light into my day.