The Land Gives Up Its Glass

When I garden,

     the earth exhales its secrets:

     medicine bottles, a nail polish vial—

Dura-Gloss, Google tells me—

This house was once an infirmary:

     rooms for the sick & elderly,

     a cottage out back for nurses

     to sleep, their housing part of their pay.

I imagine a woman,

     like the grandmother I never met,

     bending to paint her toenails

     after tending others all day;

     what a secret luxury!

But also there are ashtrays, smoky bottle

     bottoms, candy jars, lotion pots,

     a pink Depression glass bowl

     missing its lid, a Pepsi bottle still cheery.

Sometimes, something glints near a plant,

     a bathroom sink cross-handle,

     a shard of cobalt or amber,

     an old cup,

     as if tossed just now.

So many pieces I cannot name,

     filling a bucket I keep just for this.

They feel like gifts,

     reminders,

     a proof perhaps

     we are only passing through,

     just temporary guests.