Imprints

I picked up

The fossil and turned it

In my hand.

To most

A lump of rock, devoid

Of form and substance yet

Mysterious in its own way and in its own time.

The lines from

Living footprints staining a

Portrait on canvases of stone weathered

And rewarded by thousands of years of dirty work.

I wondered about

My imprints—those I withstand and

Those I create.

Are they lasting and do they profess

That heat and pressure form the man and make us a work of art?

I am amazed at the

Beauty of the shapes that grace its

Beaten and tired surface.

Yet it smiles from across time and

Triumph as it proves that many

Treasures can come from

A deep and dark and

Pressured

Place.