archaeology

I squat amid the ruins of a burnt house
and finger the charred earth,
hoping to uncover some flowered shard,
a teacup handle, a rusty hinge,
wanting nothing new or bright or brilliant-
only the commonest thing.

My knees are soiled
and the light weakens
towards the western rise.
Shadows embellish the ground
and I sift until you call me.
Your voice lifts me to my feet.
I cross the brambled hill
where we saw the fox one time,
brindled flanks disappearing
into cedars and shade.
We were too astonished to speak,
the moment folded in a pocket,
a love letter to carry into battle.

When I reach the ridge
there is a yielding wind
and a sloping darkness
that rises to take me
with the tenderness of sleep.
When I see you at last,
a smudge of violet
against a closed curtain of sky,
you fill my hands with relics.