The Fossil
A dead seed lodged in stratified land,
Time’s artifact in the palm of my hand.
I lick its face, taste amorphous stone
In other words nothing. DNA’s flown.
Silicon silenced carbon’s low moan.
Chaste without pain behind mineral doors
And deeply sheltered from cellular wars,
This blind storyteller of Cambrian lore
Proclaims Darwin’s truth from a house of sand
From my aging fist, wrinkled and tanned.
Photons slither onto retinal shores.
Earth heaves round its magnetic core
Mirroring wind, the seas dripping tar,
And metal flesh of exploding stars.
Jupiter’s storm biting down on its tail
Trilobites haunting a handful of shale.
Elizabeth Hurst
If you have any thoughts
about this poem, Elizabeth
Hurst would like to hear them
