Moments before I unearth,
from its cluttered pile, the hand trowel
I once placed somewhere inside my garden shed
with some past version of my fingers,
there forgotten by last season’s mind, and yet
(if I can find it) ready,
to assist the soft emergence of spring shoots – that’s when
the thought occurs to me,
this is an excavation
of my former self.
Bronwyn Sharman does not want you to know who she is or where she comes from, because she finds your fictional version of her more revealing.