One wonders
from which direction came
all that hardness,
whether from some inner
imperative

the years
accreted their durable rind,
or whether heat
and gravity—both being
unkind—

encased those
years in a sort
of quartz-like shell.
Can the disturbances be
traced,

can what
befell those hard years
be reconstructed from
furrows grooving and pits
pocking

their outer
crust? And would unlocking
them turn them
to desiccated fistfuls of
dust?

Such uncertainty
surrounds those hard years
we may never
understand them, which might
ultimately

be good:
some hardnesses protect what
softnesses are left
and overall work best
ununderstood.