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.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: December 15th, 2024 05:47
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 24
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
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Comments2
I hate to think what will be dug up in another thousand or two years.
History in fragments, untold stories told in pieces. What we all come to in the end and what will be read of us? Very nicely worded and phrased this poem feels like one of those shards dug up to reveal its story.
Thanks Soren, I appreciate your feedback. My grandma dug up some pottery when she was digging her rose garden.
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