The Spearhead
I shuffled my feet along
a small patch of sand
that glittered with pebbles
in between weeds and grass.
A small sharp edge caught my eye
a spearhead – long and tapered
shimmery and flinty.
Here, in this remote corner of the woods,
someone lived so long ago
that an entire people are forgotten.
On this hill, by the worn deer path,
some young man aimed
and lost his spear.
Perhaps his footprints are underneath
the grass still,
or his spirit lives
in the quiet rustle of the leaves,
I shuffled my feet along
a small patch of sand
that glittered with pebbles
in between weeds and grass.
A small sharp edge caught my eye
a spearhead – long and tapered
shimmery and flinty.
Here, in this remote corner of the woods,
someone lived so long ago
that an entire people are forgotten.
On this hill, by the worn deer path,
some young man aimed
and lost his spear.
Perhaps his footprints are underneath
the grass still,
or his spirit lives
in the quiet rustle of the leaves,
I actually found a spearhead while clearing out some debris to plant a tree on our farm. Seeing it made me wonder what Native Americans might have inhabited the very spot on which we have plant our vineyard. Our neighbors found several arrowheads and my husband found one when digging to plant one of our many roses. Our farm sits at the top of a small hill, a perfect place to make camp or create a village. I often find things there and imagine what life might have been like on that very spot a thousand years ago.
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