I found a flint spear point in the garden
this morning in the sleet. It was grayish black
coated with the ice melting. It was smoother
than a dime, and held its lost place everywhere.
I left it on the back porch beside a vase
and a rusty kettle. If my old father could live again,
he would hold it and tell me his mother's people
had worked the stone beside a frozen creek born of stars.