Archaeologist

Little jars of things you found
under the surface
sit, quietly shelved.
Here we see
a potted history
of a whole village worth of lives.
Here, a few beads,
still blue,
lie beside a bit of brooch.
Who wore you?
Was she like me?
Did she have off days,
crazy days,
days when blue beads
were just what she needed,
when only blue beads would do?
That pile of pieces of pots
once held perfume,
dinner,
water,
oil.
Now, carefully cleaned of soil,
it waits where it’s put
and holds nothing but
the past.