shard

I don't know how it caught my eye
with the grey afternoon sun
low
and quiet
the river gliding slowly over my feet
beyond my gaze
one small black shape
in a river village of glistening stones

But somehow I turned
and knelt
and reached
through two inches of river
and into a thousand years of memory

This small piece of scooped clay, molded by hand
hardened by camp fire flame
once was part of a sturdy whole
holding water, and corn,
and the life blood
of family

Its weight and shape are comforting
and I'm surprised at the feeling
Like a favorite object
discovered in an unfamiliar place
not knowning until right now
it had ever been lost

Closing my eyes,
feeling the soft round edges in my hand
I see it then
as it was
a part of the whole
coming to life
long dead hands
in the cold wet dawn
probing the river dip by dip
for clay, and sand, and hope

And those hands....those lovely hands.....
lithe sinews pressing, pinching, shaping
sorting clay red from blue,
tempering the mix with sand, and moss
and instinct
quick fingers
brushing stray bits of wood and grass
from the perfecting form
rolled and stretched from the river

A caddoan bowl, I think
but only she knows for sure, now
and only she knows
why the deer, incised on the rim, lives there still today
or what story is told by the pattern, rolled across that damp red surface,
before it knew the fire

Standing in the river
my gaze lost beyond the bank
I wonder how many seasons this urn carried water
how many dry lips were quenched
by the little river inside

But the stillness breaks
children laughing bring me back to here
and now
I wonder how many seasons have passed
since a hand slipped, or a storm wind blew,
and this vessel scattered
shattered in the weeds and lost among the rocks

and how is it that now
this one piece,
this solitary shard
has come to lie exposed and alone among the riverbank pebbles
away from the bank
and the village
and the clay

And what has been lost
now that it is found?