rescuing the past

each year I see
the woman who digs
walking
up king street in her blue dress,
less blue
with time.
her boots, still black,
but muddied,
a heavy sack
upon her shoulder.
she's bent more
now than ever, but plodding
along towards
the next yard
to unearth a shard of glass,
a cup,
a broken saucer,
each thrown away in another
century as
trash. on her knees she'll
unbury
with brush and file,
with a shovel spoon
and a keen eye for rescuing
what used to be,
the past.