Unrequited

It will not come to dust, of that I'm sure;
for now it is embalmed, eternally
suspended, like the mythic moth made pure
within its amber flame, whose worth will be
in death what quickening breath cannot convey.
Of little consequence, that I have paid
the price of heavy years, if it might stay
preserved forever.  Nature's hand has made
its gems from silent ends, and it will make
a million more, as long as loves may die
unrealized; and, grieving, it may slake
their thirst with resin tears in which they'll lie
as relics ever incorrupt.  What cost,
then, but the wood predestined to be lost?

First published (in slightly altered form) in Decanto
© Leticia Austria 2010