Amber Bottle, Empty

The antique shop air was thick

with other people's dust.

I found it on a low shelf,

a small, heavy bottle, holding trust

for nothing now.

Amber glass, thick-lipped,

catching the weak afternoon sun.

Inside, a few trapped bubbles,

perfectly round, perfectly done,

like ancient breath.

They held still,

fixed in the viscous melt,

a moment pressed, forever felt.

And I thought of things

that harden into being,

held fast, without seeing

the world shift, or break, or go.

Just the light, passing slow.