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The Arrow-Head
Speak, arrow-head!…
I would hear your story:
I would hear of the part you played
In the great drama which man calls history.
Ages have sunk away since a straight-spined redskin fashioned you;
What was the mission that you accomplished
Ere I found you
Among the pebbles at the brook's edge?
Was your possessor a warrior,
Or some mighty hunter?
What errand was it on which he sent you
When you sprang from his taut bow-string
Was it some enemy's quivering heart
Through which you tore your ragged way?
Or did you bring some frighted stag
Low upon a smiling hillside?
Was it you that turned the tide of battle-
Or was bison-flesh your quarry?
And your possessor, arrow-head?…
I would hear of him, too.
Did he return a conqueror when you had sped upon your deadly way?
Or did his bones blister and bleach under a too-steady sun?
It may be that his fingers fumbled
And you fell useless at his feet:
For even at best
Some efforts must be vain…
This I know…
You are not quite perfect-
There are flaws here and there to mar a beautiful con-tour-
Ah, the brave who chiseled you was young…
Youth is ever hasty
And not over-neat:
Your uneven surfaces hint at romances
Which sapped betimes the skill from his strong fingers…
Did the young arrow-maker
Chant a love-song under his breath
As he worked?
Did a sloe-eyed maiden smile from her teepee
In answer to his wooing?
Mayhap the young warrior returned not
From the battle…
And mayhap
The maiden wept…
What followed year on year,
Oh, arrow-head?
Or is your voice as silent
As the stern flint from which the young buck fashioned you?
A tombstone immortal…
With its inscription erased
By the mocking hand of Time…
From The History Center Collection
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