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The Poem Stone
I happened upon an old Indian settlement. Judging by the pottery shards and bird points I'd say Iroquois was my best guess. I'd seen my fair share of pottery and small arrowheads, what I longed for was the head of a tomahawk or maybe a hand chipped obsidian blade. Hard to explain the allure of finding 3000 year old artifacts from a family long lost to the ages. It's like holding a piece of time in your hands or resurrecting memories from long ago. I must admit, secretly I search for signs of love amongst the rubble. That's when I see it. Not a knife blade or tomahawk but a half-round tool used to scrape the underside of animal skin in the production of pelts. It's a fine artifact. I marvel at the craftsmanship. I grip it and my fingers find the reliefs perfectly positioned. With my other hand I run my fingertips along the blade. What was once sharp is now dull from use. Where others see an old stone, I see intrinsic beauty. I know in my heart that this tools' purpose is not lost to the ages. It is the dull blade of this very stone that I use to scrape the poems from my soul.
©2016 Joseph M. Urbanski
