I recall excavating ash-dark earth
-and then that silly sudden happy mirth,
smooth brown 'stoneware' uncovered, still interred.
Excitement, ever so slightly deferred.
Knee-deep; in Dog-Wood, diggings like a mole
hillocks-all-over the show—black as coal
and in my hands a piece of history,
forcing it out ever so gingerly,
And a question mark hovers -is it entire?
Will it rest on my shelves as a survivor?
in my kitchen with two dozen others
Edwardian, Victorian brothers.
Dumps can yield much paraphernalia
and-digging-it-up-finds you no royal regalia.
But bottle-diggers find hand-blown treasure
even-small-ointment-ones without measure.
-are intrinsically a special tell-tale
as they've survived something more than airmail.
Or the dumping in an old chamber pot
they just sentimentally mean a lot.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem