The Old Bottle, Or, What Stays

Grandma's box of odds and ends,

cluttered with forgotten friends.

A chipped glass bottle, small and stout,

what it held, I can't figure out.

But the glass, it caught the sun, just so,

and burned with a deep, slow, amber glow.

Not yellow, not gold, but something dense,

a solidified past, without defense.

It smelled, faintly, of forgotten herb,

or something sweet, that would disturb

the settled dust. A ghost of scent,

a lifetime, bottled, somehow spent.

And I held it, that heavy piece of time,

and saw the light, through its imperfect grime.

It held its color, stubbornly, to say,

'Some things, they just refuse to fade away.'