Dry Gold

Opened the box, tissue paper soft,

a ceramic angel, chipped wing.

And a scent, dry, lifted

like pale gold dust. A specific thing,

the smell of cut wood, but old.

Not sharp pine, but fine particles

that catch the sun. It made me cold,

then warm, remembering small miracles

of light in a garage door crack,

a beam where the motes would spin.

Winter rain, outside, hitting the back

window. And inside, where dust had been

a kind of weather.

A ghost of effort, someone's hand,

smooth planks, then splintered air.

It clung to the angel, a fine sand.

A silent, forgotten prayer,

or just wood settling down.