With careful attention
we scrape the red, bean-field soil
from your trash heaps
 
Would you have thought
we could presume
so much about you
from the little you cast off
   a worn yucca fiber sandal
   pieces of broken pots
   ashes from your cooking fires
   a weathered bead or two?
 
We, who create tons of garbage
to grind, burn, bury, mix and melt
touch with reverence
your scattered bits
We map them, number, measure,
photograph, and encase them
in airtight displays.  We enact laws
to protect what you found useless
 
We have searched your ruins
for a hundred years,
tested and tallied,
and still you elude us
Your spirits linger
just beyond our reach

This poem first appeared in The Footprints of Shadows (Feathermoon Press, 2000).
Used here with the author’s permission.