Sharpened Stones Poem by Barbara Attaway

Sitting at brackish-brown water's edge
Hands, blue-veined, sore to the bone
Strong tanned fingers, through muddied sand, dredge
And seek Early Man's sharpened stones

Breeze soft with whistles of melodious song
Waves lapping rhythm to Earth heartbeats
Strong tanned fingers, through muddied sand, long
To feel that ancient, sharpened strength

Floating on Jasper and Obsidian dreams
My mind re-creates this place long ago
Strong tanned fingers, through muddied sand, glean
To reap Early Man's sharpened stow

A Stone sharpened to pierce, take down
A spirit meant to feed, make warm, help survive
Strong tanned fingers, through muddied sand, drill
For the need to know him; sharp and alive

Sitting at brackish-brown water's edge
Hands all shriveled, sensitive, clean
Strong tanned fingers, through muddied sand, slide
Touch, then know perfect sharpened means

To hold in strong tanned fingers, this
To hold though none have held before
Since one who sent this lance to kiss
Ask forgiveness and become his store

Such a moment is addictive
Such a moment is really quite rare
What a victory to have been predictive
I pray he knows, I know, he was here