Sweet flowers grew, and grasses blew,
About a pretty garden stone,
While on a rough and wooded bluff,
A piece of granite lay alone.
The comely stone was rightly owned
By one of gentle, fragile hand.
The other, gleaned and brusquely cleaned,
Sat in a palm it could not span.
Then came a morn of promise born
A chamber opened, both went in,
Yet, while they froze in brief repose,
The vessel soon commenced to spin.
At first, in unison they rolled,
But out of sync, the tears began,
Transforming bed and bond, and all
To loosely saturated sand.
Then brief, colliding, bashing hurts
Gave way to blissful harmony
And through each turn, from fight to friend,
They both were altered, subtly.
All jagged edges slowly smoothed,
And more than not gave sweet caress.
No longer coarse, disparate stones
But precious, polished, mated gems.