My Daughter Digs

to claim the past for her Papa and me,
to know why we bow our heads,
to know why we look heavenward.
She shows us where pasts were buried,
the broken pottery,
the tarnished and twisted spoon,
the rusted flintlock
that whisper the past,
that claim we lived here and were
busy with that living when they
sent us away,
bound to return,
to reclaim
our language,
our farms,
our wives, husband, and children,
our God, Savior, and Mother,
ourselves.