Archeology
I am extinct, the way some pachyderms are
while others are not.
Ice fields turn to desert,
wind-straws evolve into sun hats.
An archaeologist wearing a straw hat
discovers my skull.
She crouches down, sweeps a small brush
over my partly exposed dome.
I like her fingers.
they cup, and they measure,
they feel the weight of things dispersed,
they honor what remains.
The dimpled flesh over her knees
kisses the earth. I like the shady eclipse of her.
She sweeps dust from my eye-sockets;
I recall wind and sky.
She gently tugs
me from the earth,
carries my emptiness away.
An era rides a sleep-walking tortoise.
I count footprints in an Alzheimer's ward.
Rain clouds are my dreams.
Time buries its layers. I am underneath
the above again.
A lady archaeologist wearing a sun hat
discovers my skull.
She’s nice.
Questions like:
who, what and where
do not arise.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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