There is a layer of skin
That covers the earth
A thin membrane
Below which magma, molten and red hot,
Courses through subterrainean veins,
Pulsates within the dark soil,
Seeking some fissure,
Some crack, some fault, some break,
Some opening to relieve the unbearable pressure.

Below these combustable rivers of fire
Is an even denser layer of rock,
Sinewed, coiled, churning upon itself in a taut dance.
And still below that is the earth's center:
A solid core of iron and nickle,
An eternal heart of metal,
Where no life exists,
Which nothing can penetrate.

And yet
The impenatrable can be opened as easily as an unlocked door.
Rivers of fire can be navigated into oceans of serenity,
Solid layers of rock can be transmuted into supple clay,
Even a metallic heart can be softened —
By the gentlest of touches,
From a Master's hand.

Copyright 2000 Michael Bokman