Trash,
cast-off tin and wood,
flotsam,
pulverized, shredded,
the remains of living and losing.
Wayward pots and jars,
until
something hovers in your hand.
The arm of a doll,
a locket discolored by time,
a box dented and empty,
and you hear
voices return.
A hand
comforting the doll,
a taste of salt
lifted from the box,
playtime resonating in a garden.
Trash,
consumed in fire,
retrieved,
restored,
a remnant of treasure
that becomes your own.