taking shape

you say,
as the glass
flies in tiny shards,
that flint-knapping
takes you back
to caves and hollows,
the shade of large trees,
beasts of mammoth proportion.

your bare chest
glistens in the wake
of stone and glass reduced
by hand, copper and antler,
each piece taking shape
as you peel back
the years and layers
of yourself.

by twilight,
we step careful,
our patio deck a minefield,
shaved glass and bits of stone,
glittering in the moonlight,
the below and the high,
littered with lightning bugs,
reshaping the darkness.

beyond midnight,
the green jewel
lies against my chest,
age-old and weapon-precise,
yet softened by your artfulness,
soldered and strung to silver,
measured for fit
forever to my heart.