Amber

Amber

Katie Cox

Not long ago, my father gave me a box
made of plain old wood, from across seas.
But inside, on the base,
is a city made of the tall, shining spires
of castles that glitter in the sunlight,
the tiny sparkle frozen forever
in the plain wood and varnish
of the plain, ordinary box from my father.
On the lid, the heavens of the tiny city,
is a decoration of wooden lace carved
of different types of wood to give color.
There, in the center of the lid, a single drop of amber
like the sun of city, of the world, it shines
and the spirit of the city shines with it
not perfect, not unblemished, but still wonderful
when the light catches it.
And I look up and see it echoed in my sky
a gem, the passage for the light that
catches the tiny, remote
world.