Tribute to ABB Patterson
Out where the ranges rise and roll,
Where rivers carve the land,
The quartz lies deep in granite veins
Like bones beneath the sand.
It’s not by chance, nor idle whim,
That crystals form so true—
They’re born of fire and pressure’s grip
And time’s relentless brew.
But nestled in that stony heart,
A fleck of gold may gleam,
A whisper from the Earth itself,
A miner’s waking dream.
They chipped and dug with pick and pan,
Through dust and sweat and clay,
Till one cried out, “Eureka, mates!”
And turned the world that day.
For gold’s no ghost—it rides the cracks
Where quartz has laid its claim,
A passenger in nature’s script,
A spark within the frame.
So quartz may be the memory,
Of Earth’s old molten song,
But gold’s the glint that draws the hand
And pulls the soul along.
Ceteris Paribus 