The Fossil in My Palm

Light caught a fleck of orange

slipping from my fingers,

resting on cracked wood—

a fossil older than memory.

Dust motes spun slow,

caught in the amber glow

that held a hundred summers

frozen, dark and trembling.

Inside, shadows hung tight,

small, blackened flecks

like tiny islands

no wave could wash away.

The attic smelled of old wood,

forgotten things,

and the ghost of a beach

where laughter had thinned and gone.

I held that weight in my palm,

a warmth that was almost loss,

almost longing,

cracked and shining like a bruise.

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