Originally Published in the BAngor DailY News: Uni-Verse, 9.26.2011
Where we escape our grind, they grind to the surface through layers of ocean purge;
Porcelain pieces, clay pipes, graves of sea glass await us in this sandy earth.
Chips of bone china disarticulated from the whole, compel us to search for what is broken beneath our soles.
Their remnants held an auntie’s soup, hot tea, the hunter’s roasted fowl, a pub matron’s pickled eggs, cold brews, a slug of tobacco.
Breakage tumbles their tale toward you, while your goblet is still full in hand.
You touch their fractured cups, cracked plates, their broken bowls without morsel, and contemplate in sun and fog with these bits of good cheer.
But a hint glints in the glazed chip of a bottle - To dine well and swallow deep until you, too, fall against the crush of it all; When one day a new generation of eyes will again scan dry and wet sands, as we porcelain people walk above the sweep of human current.