Barbara Attaway Poet Ballad

Sharpened Stones

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

Breeze soft with whistles of melodious song
Waves lapping rhythm to Earth's heartbeats
Strong searching 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 searching 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, to survive
Strong searching 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 searching fingers, through muddied sand, slide
Touch, then know perfectly sharpened means

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

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

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