As kids, we dug at an outcropping
of gray slate looking for fossils,
unearthing ferns that fanned out
in search of a long-ago sun.

We rubbed thumbs over the ribbed
remains, a Braille for the language
of leaves relieved of their rustle
and replaced by their stony silence.

In my open hand I weighed the ages
and questioned the impression
of my short life, wondering if others
would discover something that lasts.