Poetry

The Past Speaks Pictograph Hunting

We went out this morning –
on a brilliant blue summer day –
the three of us - pictograph hunting –
Monica showed us we walk on time – unknowing –
we found lithics scattered in a field - everywhere - chalcedony; chert, basalt –
red; black; brown; translucent -
un – number - able flakes and pieces –
once we learned to see them –
how many have I trod under – un -seeing?
And how many earth ovens have I walked past, blind?
How many house pits have I missed?
before I learned to see –
that I live on stolen land .
Before I learned to hear, would I have understood that the First People tell stories -
- stories of a wall of ice to the north – in the old time?
We didn’t take any shards –
as Chris said –
they belong to the people who made them –
we’ve stolen enough without taking these as well -
Monica wondered why people take points and put them on their mantelpieces –
I think –
they do it because those shards hold the magic of the old time –
people borrow a past where existentialism was yet to come –
yearn for a time when no split existed between sacred and profane –
they seek the numinous – as do I.
It isn’t that I didn’t want to take the awl I found –
but a voice asked me - rather sharply -
“What do you want it for?”
and I had no answer - to that question from the old time.
But a new question surfaced in my mind – with the acerbic response –
My question –
Will the land shape us too?
If we listen, will we belong here?
Will the land recognize me?
When I walk through the heavy heat of summer to the creek,
If I listen deeply enough, if my heart is open enough,
will the earth be glad to see me?
Will it?