One day, in the long memory of this planet,
when the haphazard architecture of my heart
lies buried beneath three millenniums' refuse,
they will nearly rediscover the love
I had for you.

Broken pieces of ancient pottery,
an animal bone, a swatch of colored cloth,
a cryptic design etched
on a single tarnished silver bead.

Carefully they will dig with surgeon's tools,
clean with soft bristled toothbrush,
finely sifting the debris
for signs of our endless silences:
What vows?  What visions? What curses
in these partial utterances?

Their archeology will assemble no story,
they will not recognize the epitaph
of an extinct bird's signal melody,
a substance comprised of empty space
stored within a shattered jar.

© Bob Rixon