Wednesday, February 18, 2015

we are makers

the scraper touches me

half-buried, the worked stone calls to me,


amidst the casual randomness of the schoolyard ground,
the shape, the color whisper of intention,
so I act and pull forth the stone from the clay,
and I find a chert scraper,

perfect in how it fits to the hand,
and I realize he who made it was right-handed
for my left hand can’t quite readily fit it,

I can love a tool, not just for what it can do,
but for what it can hint of its maker, its use, its time,
we people are much about what we make,

I want to feel connection
so that at least I can know a little of others 
who reach back toward the first awakenings,

my right hand holds the scraper
and I reach to hold him who made it.

by Henry H. Walker
February 12, ’15

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