Fossil Light

My grandmother's ring, cold

then warm in my palm.

The amber, thick like frozen honey,

holding tiny worlds.

A bubble, perfect, round,

then a fleck of dust,

or maybe it’s an insect’s wing,

trapped centuries ago,

a little story in itself.

I hold it to the window light,

and the yellow glows,

deep, ancient.

It’s a warmth that doesn’t reach

my skin, not really.

Just sits there,

hard and beautiful,

a memory I can almost touch,

but never truly feel.