Prairie Poetry   
Spear Point

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.

Clyde Kessler
Copyright © 2002 Clyde Kessler
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