Caught Light

The low sun, a watery orange,

catches the window sill,

dust motes rise and fall, a slow,

silent show.

A knob of resin,

like hardened tree tears,

holds a fly,

wings spread,

a final flutter held tight.

Its small body,

a dark speck,

glows now from inside the gold,

a kind of ancient mold,

a tiny god,

preserved,

for someone to behold.

I stare,

how long it’s been there,

a brief life in a stone.

Alone.