Stratigraphy

No scarp I raise
will stave off the days,
slake the wind's assault,
or temper a fault.

Come close; observe
the gifts I conserve
in beds half-hidden
by landslide midden:

A midriff sash
of volcanic ash
and shell sumps inlaid
with reed brocade.

History's cut bare
in what I can spare,
while grain by grain
I'm sieved through rain,

unraveled on rifts
with my few, small gifts,
and stripped to be glossed,
my piecework lost.

Copyright © 2004 Meg Schoerke All rights reserved
from Anatomical Venus
Word Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission