I, collector of bones, follow the winds of erosion,
seeking those treasures embedded in stone
by the relentless press of time.
I, scavenger, of the endless rise and fall of slope,
sift the dunes for bits of my past
in history’s house of the dead.
I, in a probable future, as bones revisit the sun,
specimens sorted, polished and placed-
atrophied under the glass.
I am trapped within the irony,
in guise of archeology-
my answers locked in ivory-
I shall forego today.
With a blessing, I return
my tomorrow to the sand,
retrace my steps in reverence
heeding a wind that learns to wail.
SS Matthews 2004
Previously published in Fusion Poetry Contest