more poetry

The Dig

Reaching toward a distant shore.
Archaeological excavations, memories
waiting under dust of decades.
Pottery shards, broken from a narrow-mouthed vessel
brown and muddy,
water long since spilled, dried.
What well or river did I pull it from;
where is that thirst now?
Can I find my way back to
draw and fill a new container
paint it turquoise
and red
open my mouth wide
drink til I’m sated?


The rains bring the scent of memory.
Shards of pottery
brown and crumbling
in a lost cavern
abandoned on the floor
beside skeletons
whose bones shake and rattle
the wind makes dust rise
the rain outside sends mist
drifting through the cave
to settle onto the pottery
and the bones.
Another layer
of years gone by.
Another memory drips away
melts into the night
of my silent demise
softening like butter
before the baking begins
Awaiting the mixing spoon, the bowl, the spatula, the baking tins,
the chemical alchemy,
the oven.
Fixing with heat
what will never come again.

Searching these caverns for a life lost. No archaeologist’s brush will reconstitute
what has long since passed. Some things
are better buried.


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