What the Light Found

The drawer at the back of the dresser had it—

a piece of amber on a thin chain,

dust thick on its surface, settled and staying.

I held it up to the window.

The light went through it warm,

almost liquid, and I remembered

that amber meant old things preserved,

insects held in stone,

proof that something lived before.

My palm heated around it.

The dust came off on my fingers,

that gray powder of years.

Inside the amber something looks like a seed

or maybe just a shadow.

I can't tell. The light keeps changing

as I turn it, as I tilt it,

and what I see depends on the angle,

on how much I'm willing to squint.

I put it back in the drawer

but the warmth stays in my hand.

The window's still open.

The light's still there,

waiting for something else to hold it.