Fly in Resin

Aunt Helen's gift, this ugly thing,

a polished blob of sickly gold.

She swore it was an antique, a king's

ransom, a story to be told.

But all I see is trapped, a fraud.

A tiny gnat, long dead, its wings

spread in a final, frozen laud

to what? The amber just clings.

It wanted out, I bet it tried,

beat its small head against the glass

of sticky light, nowhere to hide.

Now just a fleck, where ages pass.

Precious, she called it. Stone of sun.

But the sun only shines to show the tomb.

Forever fixed, its short life run,

a pretty prison, filled with gloom.