Green Glass God

There it lay gleaming in a hollow of moist earth

churned by wind breath and stream flow,

nestled half-buried in soil marked

by the eager thrust of duck bills

and the prints of creatures that hide

shyly, afraid, among the trees at water's edge.

The sides were worn smooth by tumbling,

the shape a surprising whorl 

with common dirt coating its crevices.

I held it beneath the rush of a cold autumn stream

until the dirt fell away, and when I lifted it

I could see a green world through it,

a world of bared branches and fallen leaves

turned suddenly the color of spring.

I do not know from where the green glass came,

but I took it home and wondered

who else has found a shard 

to wipe off, to keep, to carry home

and if their shards might somehow

fit softly, secretly into mine.