The small things come hardest—
the fragment of geode,
the obsidian shard
muddled in the dust,
the stacked books and
favored feathers, postcards
and lovely works, art
crafted in proof, oh proof
that once I was loved
or at least time was served,
this ravaged sediment of
labor and skill, letters left
to their tenses, gifts strewn
across my life. Nothing
so treasured, nothing so
beloved as the little glimmers,
nuzzling the nape of your neck,
forever’s thrilling shift to never.