It’s always been archaeology. We’re
sifting through soil, when we glimpse hints of gold
and the Harpole Treasure emerges: clear
proof of a buried power held by an old
woman. She’d be decked in jewels, robed to lead
and bless. The cross in the cache and ornate
necklace conjure a priestess for Christ’s creed
who drew her pagan people to heaven’s gate.
With these glints of golden times, we’ve been beguiled.
We know we’ve baptized, preached, and buried—
and will again. But as strata are revealed,
our past grows heavy. This future, so long carried,
fails to crown. Saint Phoebe says, Stop digging earth.
Walk out beneath the stars to bring on birth.