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