Archaeology of Self

Gathering the bones
Is becoming

My profession.

Purposefully
Investigating, instigating,
Integrating.
Older Self whispering patiently,
Watching and waiting,
Knowing
It's all grist, all fodder
All wholesome ingredients
For this recipe,
This rehydration, resurrection.
This project of ages,
Of decades, of days, 
Centuries 
Of imbricated lifetimes and solid moments..
Bones at the crossroads,
By the highways,  in fields,
Bones on the roadside, under bridges,
On creekbanks, in yards, hidden in wild gardens,
In the gloaming of deep damp forest,
Under hedges, caught up in the Thorn, 
Swinging from mind-gibbets,
Tucked into niches in old stone walls,
Dropped heedlessly on the porches of my identities..
In the kitchen, down the back of the couch,
In my pockets... Look!
A knucklebone ... or a piece of my spine?
Which bones are mine? 

All the while
Old woman whispers,
Beyond narrative,
More than a metaphor, 
.. knowing.

by Lizzy pre Mabon 2013