On the winter solstice, I drag a stool to the tall bookshelf,
take down the old honey jar with OAKLAND SHARP THINGS written in a ring around the lid

 
At the sink, I dump the contents into the green plastic colander
turn the water to hot, take each shard of glass and rusty hook in hand,
clean edges with the thin rim of my thumbnail

 
In our old yard, each piece appeared through the dirt, not there until
our daughter spun her feet in the ground, twisting her swing tight then setting loose
—her body, the story of the land—

 
In that sun, I gathered these remnants of others—tiniest bottleneck, 
pottery striped with a narrow band of gold—
tossed them day by day into the jar, until we moved
and I took it with me, stashed away tool to conjure the scent
of grapefruit flowers blooming above or to remember how sharp
our origins or how poor or how beautiful anyway