Amber

Seasons never change with a hard break;

summer runs warm hands across 

the colder cheek of autumn,

who in turn sent chilling emissaries 

as far back as July,

when the weakest leaves performed skits of the fall

for the relief of sweltered crowds in city parks 

dropped, as we said, like the dead.


Nothing ever ends,
 

a touch once felt can’t fade in fullness 

if it is at least remembered.

I remember seeing Viking amber 

shipped as far as Rome,

the memory of a harsh Norse grip trapped, 

like an ancient Baltic mosquito, 

stumbled into posterity 

exploring the oozed sap of pre-historic pine,

fate sealed like fame, for the future.

 

And perhaps that's what we are;

visitors who’s warm touch

waits for the unravelling,  

for the faithful march of time.