I combed my childhood backyard for hours on end
determined to find the ruins of a monastery, shards
of ancient pottery, or the remains of a prehistoric
creature that soon would bear the name of my choosing.

On hands and knees, darting frantic grasshoppers in
the strawberry patch, nostrils held amongst the mulch,
Surveying vantage atop the oak on the hill,

The years of my youth wasted in search of the past
without a relic to show, a lesson to forget yesterday.