Imprints

I am a paleontologist
on the dig, squatting in mud,
smeared face an inch
from the stream stones
I sift all afternoon.

Stone snail and clam shells
fall through my hands
back into the oil-stained water.
My fingertips desire only the imprints,
on which delicate flowers,
scatter among worthless gravel.

When an hour offers one,
bone-colored, the tint of ash,
I drop the precious stone
into the glass bottle
where I keep hardened gardens.

My fourth grade teacher says
they are only crinoids,
fossils of no importance.
I nod, staring at her shoes, but
know they are ceremonial circles
that beg me to dance on them.

A. Popp
1993

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