Tonight's Poet Corner: An Archaeologist's Crisis
An Archaeologist's Crisis
by Belinda Roddie
Shovels scrape the capillaries
of a living, breathing organism. I
am superficially speechless at the site,
struck into unconsciousness by Mother
Nature's chloroform, her breath soaked
in winter's pickled brine.
We have dug up a relic of past
endeavors. A queen mistaken for
a king, a jester more noble than
the salted monarchy. Herrings flung
from silver platters, their bones more
salvageable than any precious metal.
Life is restless, but it is still fossilized.
We pretend that it goes on forever. Not
even stars boast of immortality. Their dust
blows onward, but their mighty gestures
of power are brief and fleeting. One blink,
and you miss it. Shovels cut the arteries
of a planet bleeding to death. Nothing
will last through fire. The canvas will
not be rendered blank - it will instead
be scorched, and useless for repainting.
by Belinda Roddie
Shovels scrape the capillaries
of a living, breathing organism. I
am superficially speechless at the site,
struck into unconsciousness by Mother
Nature's chloroform, her breath soaked
in winter's pickled brine.
We have dug up a relic of past
endeavors. A queen mistaken for
a king, a jester more noble than
the salted monarchy. Herrings flung
from silver platters, their bones more
salvageable than any precious metal.
Life is restless, but it is still fossilized.
We pretend that it goes on forever. Not
even stars boast of immortality. Their dust
blows onward, but their mighty gestures
of power are brief and fleeting. One blink,
and you miss it. Shovels cut the arteries
of a planet bleeding to death. Nothing
will last through fire. The canvas will
not be rendered blank - it will instead
be scorched, and useless for repainting.
Comments
Post a Comment