Suddenly it is dark
in the morning,
as if the sun needed to stay
below
the horizon a little longer,
the earth tilted away
to hide her treasure,
like the basket I found in my
dreams,
dust-covered, colors faded,
but the design true, a note
inside
scrawled with tiny letters
and a number.
Maybe this once belonged
to someone’s grandmother,
this basket. I shall carry it
home
and make it whole.
A basket made by Californian Lucy Telles,
now in the Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indian
(source: Wikipedia)
The first lines of this poem came on waking this morning, a very dark morning before daylight savings time kicks in now that we're two-thirds of the way through October. I think I know what it means: that urge to preserve and protect artifacts from previous generations, perhaps an acknowledgement that I cannot 'see' what is valuable of my own.
Even if I have not written every single day, this month long commitment to try comes from Octpowrimo.com -- Go see what others have written HERE.
