Mrs. Trilby bragged proudly this time
about how she found some potsherds
when she dug up her yard for a garden,
hands clawed through Earth’s tired crust,
brought up pieces of forgotten echoes,
fragments of lives etched in clay whispers,
buried beneath the roots and wilting weeds,
each shard a time capsule of lost dawns,
carried stories from centuries-old tongues,
fingers traced the curves of ancient dust,
linked us to souls who once roamed freely,
their hearts beating with the same force,
as we search for the sacred in the soil,
seeking dreams hidden in the earth\'s veins,
gardens growing over history’s fragile bones,
where her tulips now stand, heads bowed,
nodding solemnly to those who came first,
and Mrs. Trilby’s hands hold worlds untold.