A coin dropped on a dusty New World path.

Forged of copper in the Sun King’s image,

Carted across oceans. Now inert.

Covered in the accumulated debris of centuries.

The energy of history, kinetic. Forgotten

As inevitably as the pyramids. Or me.

Yet on a summer morning, look, found.

Uncovered by a fair wind and farmer’s plough.

In motion again, coveted again.

Rebirth. The mahogany desk and silk sleeve

an improvement on the dirty farm ditch.

Or so I believe. This temporary spasm

Of belonging, a short detour

On the inevitable path

Of being forgotten again.