I like gnarled objects, twisted lengths of wood,
bent shapes, beach wreckage, objects put aside, then found –
in a cave, or an attic, or buried underground –
generations later, their world not understood
embodying some long-ago forgotten use,
the hands which carved them, changed them, as though part
of some intricate puzzle about an encrypted past,
connecting with lives once lived, but silent, abstruse.
Or a poem by an unknown author, with lost words,
debated context, meaning, and yet by which
you feel you’re stopped, and that you’ve overheard
a stubborn mind working a problem through,
steadily, fearlessly, openly, undeterred
by the lack of any answer. Rugged. True.
First published in Snakeskin 247, January 2018