Souvenir

Stands on its half-inch side,
rolls like a wheel.
Once molten, poured, then solidified to its current form,
this aqua hockey-puck size glass weight
picking up my years
my young adult legs
in the Tivoli Gardens, night lights
strung across high wrought iron arches
where we saw Michael Caine walking alone.
We’d seen the Little Mermaid earlier that day
and gone to the Dansk factory
on a blustery day but all sunny
where I’m seduced
by glass, restrained by limited resources.
This deep aquamarine disk fits in my palm.
I don’t resist.
Sixty years of being held to light,
kept near plants, near windows, near me.
Nothing is clear when I look through it.
Nothing is pale.
Light always breaks through.