a story I almost hold

 

what story is written in the stones?

I love words,

for that is how I think,

the way thoughts and feelings

find shape and meaning within me,

and then, sometimes, find the way outside me

so that another can follow the ideas and emotions

I have sought to hold and release,

a great compliment of one to another

can be to feel and say that your words resonate with me,

express what I have felt before,

and yet I had not found how to say 

the insight, the truth, your words hold,

all of this comes to me,

and finds its way onto the page,

as I consider artifacts I have found,

whose story touches me,

even though I can’t quite hear it,

the story written in stone

and enduring for hundreds, thousands of years,

while the Earth turns

and time dissolves the writing 

of wood, fabric, bone, and flesh,

every individual spearpoint, 

hand axe, 

even every chip,

whispers to me,

and I am entranced with the imagining:

who stood here, who sat here, who crafted here?

Spear Point found in our garden last year

each imagining a fleeting glimpse,

A potsherd (piece of a pot)

recently, I chanced into finding a collection of artifacts,

just out our backdoor, by our outbuilding:

Cache found at base of first post

a perfect spearpoint, broken spearpoints,

a chunky stone, 

better and more varied scrapers 

than I’ve ever found before,

treasures of chunks of clear quartz

and impressive bits of black flint,

all of them as if a gift

to accompany a spirit on its way from this earth,

usually, it’s a glimpse of the past that I reach to grasp

and my hands pass through a fleeting glimmer,

this time the artifacts hold a story I can almost hold,

maybe of a loved one lost, 

these artifacts gifts 

to remember, honor, help,

our land gently slopes toward the east

where the sun rises,

maybe the spirit rose to meet the sun,

and the love of those long gone

is written in the stones I found.

by Henry H. Walker

January 22, ‘21