Amber and the Scraper

It’s been there since the camping trip in June,

a hardened glob of sap against the glass.

I meant to scrub it off—not late, but soon—

and watched the summer and the autumn pass.

I grabbed the plastic scraper from the door

and tried to wedge the edge beneath the bead.

It’s translucent orange, a fossilized core

that’s holding something small, a tiny weed

or maybe a fly’s leg, snapped and thin,

trapped in the resin, permanent and still.

I stop the scraping. How do I begin

to toss a thing that has a frozen will?

It’s just a mistake that’s cured into a stone.

I’ll leave it on the windshield, let it stay.

It’s better than being empty and alone,

this little golden knot that won’t wash away.